


The Black Adder: Knockturn's Caped Crusader

by FangQueen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Bisexual!Ron, Canon Divergent, Derogatory Language, HP: EWE, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, OCs - Freeform, Pining, Slow Burn, Vigilante!Draco, Violence, alternating pov, auror!Ron, background pairings - Freeform, redeemed!Draco, superhero au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 15:18:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 41,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13837497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FangQueen/pseuds/FangQueen
Summary: Seven years have come and gone since the Battle of Hogwarts brought the Second Wizarding War to a close, and unfortunately there are still too many Death Eaters running around free for anyone's liking. The Aurors tasked with cleaning up the mess are doing their best, but times are tough. Now all of a sudden, a masked vigilante has begun prowling the streets of Knockturn Alley, snatching up ne'er-do-wells wherever he can find them and dumping them on the Ministry's doorstep. Many believe he's doing the Aurors' jobs better than they could themselves. He's cunning, resourceful, and seems to have such an unquenchable thirst for rounding up Death Eaters that people all over wizarding London are dying to know: just whoisthe Black Adder?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Candamira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candamira/gifts).



> Written for [Ron/Draco Fest 2018](https://ron-draco-fest.livejournal.com/39588.html), based on the following AMAZING prompt by candamira:
> 
>  **Prompt:** Auror Ron has to investigate a strange case: A black-clad figure plays superhero on Knockturn. The media feast on his success and jibe on the apparently incapable Aurors. At least three times a week the Aurors find a nicely wrapped up culprit at the ministry's entrance. Ron must find the anonymous git as soon as possible, before he will succeed in reducing the Auror department to a mere laughingstock.  
>  **Rating Preferred:** your choice  
>  **Do you have a media preference?:** fic  
>  **Squicks:** mpreg  
>  **Other Comments:** Draco as a kind of Batman would be immensely cool. I'd love him to be inventive as hell, with a dungeon full of helpful magical objects and a spell and potions lab in the cellar of Malfoy Manor.
> 
> Candamira, your prompt sang to me the moment I saw it, and I knew I had to make it mine. I happen to be a pretty big Batman fan as well, so to get to combine that with my favorite pairing ever? Sign. Me. UP. Plus, the idea of Draco running around in a little black cat suit was just too good to pass up. A thousand and one thank yous to shiftylinguini for being my alpha, my beta, my cheerleader, my _everything_ on this piece ― I can say without a doubt that this was the biggest, most involved fic I've ever undertaken, and I couldn't have done it without you.  <3

It was a particularly chilly evening in early October, and the streets of Knockturn Alley were quiet. The sun had dipped below the far off horizon hours ago, the lamps blinking to life in its wake. All the shops were boarded up, and there was barely a soul about. Those who remained did their best to hurry on their way, knowing well that no good could come of this place after sundown, let alone past midnight.

Down a side street, away from the prying eyes of anyone who lingered by, Thorfinn Rowle leaned against a grimy brick wall, a hand-rolled cigarette resting loosely between his fingers. He'd positioned himself accordingly, so that he had a good sightline to the area that fell under the beam from the nearest lamp. The shadows where he stood further off provided an excellent cover, which he was thankful for. Wasn't often that he ventured into this neck of the woods anymore, and he could do without being recognized tonight.

He checked his watch, cursed under his breath around an exhale of smoke. Damn kids. Running late _again_. Not to mention it had been their idea to meet so late. He almost didn't know why he still bothered with them, after the last two times.

Thorfinn remembered fondly the days when he'd run with a more organized lot. Sure, there were some downsides to those times as well, but at least they'd had enough integrity to show up on time. Nowadays, the game was mostly controlled by young upstarts who barely knew what they were doing even on a good day. Few remained of his old group. The majority of them were currently serving life sentences in Azkaban. The ones that weren't were either abroad, or living in secrecy and trying their damnedest not to end up there. Those like him, who had managed by the slightest of chances to escape jail time thus far, were seen as the resident old fogies of the trade. And no wonder, really. Speaking solely for himself, he had been forced into hiding for so many of the years since the war that he was hardly a respectable name in the business anymore. When he _was_ around, it was like he was walking on eggshells. It didn't help that for the last few months what remained of his free comrades were being picked off one by one. It wasn't all the Aurors' doing, either...

Well regardless, Thorfinn still prided himself on knowing how to play, even if these new kids couldn't say the same. He wasn't about to let himself get caught with his trousers down because of their lack of professionalism.

There came the sound of crunching gravel, and Thorfinn pushed himself away from the wall, swivelling his head to check down each stretch of alley beyond him. For a moment, he thought he must be going crazy. Those _were_ footsteps, weren't they? Yet, he saw no one; the street was still as desolate as it had been for the past half hour.

A voice in the back of his mind chimed in with who it might have been, and he promptly brushed it off. Old friends that he was still in contact with around here had been spreading talk of a masked hero, chasing down and snatching up any former Death Eaters he could get his hands on. Even had a fancy name now, although Thorfinn couldn't be bothered to remember it. He was pretty sure it was all rubbish, of course. Yes, there had been several arrests of late that had clearly not been the Aurors doing, if the papers were to be believed, but that didn't mean that someone was out here willingly putting on a cape and tights and running around like a damn lunatic. He leaned back again, feeling foolish for having entertained the notion in the first place.

He was just about to decide on giving them another ten minutes before calling the whole thing off when two figures popped into view from around the far corner. They trod lightly over the old, stone pathway, one glancing from side to side in an almost comical nervous twitch. Thorfinn shrunk back into his hiding spot a bit more, on the off chance they ended up not being who he'd been waiting for. It wasn't until they finally stepped under the lamp, and he got a good look at them, that he rolled his eyes and flicked the butt of his fag into the dirt at his feet. About bloody time.

The boys looked like they'd seen a ghost when Thorfinn stuck a hand into the light and waved them over ― and not of the cheerful Hogwarts variety. They hurried up to him, trying to make themselves look more confident as they did, but he could see the anxiety written all over their faces. Merlin, there couldn't have been more than forty years between them.

"Hi," the taller one greeted him, wincing as he realized how daft that probably sounded. Thorfinn smirked to himself, but chose not to comment. "So. You got the ―"

"I told you, not till I see the money. After that, I'll take you to where they're stored, and you can do what you'd like with 'em."

The two young men glanced at each other, the one who spoke biting his lower lip. Then he shrugged the rucksack off his shoulder and yanked open the drawstrings.

Thorfinn peered inside, suppressing a snort. His eyes may not have been what they used to be, but it was plain as day that there wasn't enough there. Sucking his teeth in mocking contempt, he waved his wand over the bag. The number that shimmered in the air moments later was less than satisfactory.

"You're havin' me on, yeah? I told you, I'm not selling 'em for anythin' less than 30 Galleons a piece."

The short, pudgy one looked to his partner before asking with brows furrowed in confusion, "So you're not even gonna give us wholesale?"

"That _is_ wholesale, you twat."

A scraping sound came from above, and all three of them froze in place.

The two boys looked downright terrified. Thorfinn could feel the hairs on the back of his neck bristling. He stepped out a little further from the wall, peering up at the rooftops around them for signs of...Nah, it couldn't be. He was being paranoid. Was probably just an owl, or a rat scurrying about. These kids could go ahead and get jumpy if they chose, but he knew better.

Shaking off the uncanny feeling, he returned his attention to the matter at hand. The other two still looked a tad put-off, but Thorfinn wasn't about to let a silly wives' tale get the best of him.

"Look, you can take that shit back to your boss, and you can tell him I ―"

A jet of green light suddenly shot through the air. Before any of them could figure out just where it was coming from, it had whizzed over their heads to collide with the wall behind them, sparking like a firecracker on impact. They turned to watch as a symbol begin to form over the spot where it had hit ― one that would have been familiar to many. A skull, burning with all the radiance of emeralds into the dusty, gray brick. After all these years, Thorfinn knew that each one of them still felt an immense dread deep down in their souls as they gazed into its dark, empty eye sockets. Even he, with its brother still branded on his left forearm. Except when it opened its gaping maw, there was not the usual forked tongue and scales they would have expected. Instead, there came a hand, followed by a long, serpent-like arm, twisting first down, then up and around the skull, until it came to float beside it, middle finger lifted in salute.

Thorfinn couldn't help but laugh in disbelief. He should've known. He should've bloody known.

"Oh, you've _got_ to be fucking ―"

A jinx to the back of the head sent Thorfinn down like a sack of potatoes.

Blood burst over his tongue as his jaw smacked the ground. He tried to spit, but found his mouth wouldn't open. His neck was bent painfully to the side, one half of his face smushed against the ground. A whirlwind of noise roared in his ears. His body felt like it had been encased in ice. He could barely open his eyes, and even when he did, he could only make out shapes and faint colors. From his position, he couldn't see much, but he caught sight of what looked like the two boys fleeing for their lives just as a ― _fucking hell_ ― a cloaked figure scaled down the wall at the opposite side of the alley and took off after them.

The shorter one was the first to go down. The bark of a spell cut the air, and then he was suddenly snatched by a net, toppling him over kicking and screaming. Next, the figure charged after the taller one, who was backing away shrieking high-pitched pleas for mercy. Thorfinn could only see them from the waist down, but the man did something when he caught up to him that made the boy shake like he'd been zapped by lightning, before he, too, hit the ground, unconscious. His rucksack fell with a deafening clank, coins spilling from it's open top and rolling between the cracks in the cobblestone.

Thorfinn tried to twist his body, get it to inch further away from the fray. Nothing worked. Must've been a Full Body-Bind, because he couldn't move a damn thing.

The shorter boy had somehow managed to get back on his feet with the net still wrapped around him, and was trying his best to fight off their attacker. He put up a valiant effort, but it didn't get him very far. Unable to raise his arms, he instead opted for throwing his weight into the man, which he easily dodged before coming back with a smooth right hook. Thorfinn didn't see it connect, but he heard the resulting crunch, and honestly if he wasn't already thoroughly brassed, he might've commended the man for his skill.

Just as Thorfinn's vision began to gradually swim back into a clearer focus, the cloaked figure came up to stand beside him, one steel-toed boot resting within kicking distance of his teeth. He braced for the impact, when suddenly he instead felt the paralyzing cold of the spell leaving him as his arms and legs were yanked up over his back, a thick cord binding them all to each other like he was being hogtied. Now he could lift his head, and he saw that the two boys had been propped up on either side of the nearest lamppost, a similar rope holding them taut to it.

Then he was suddenly flying through the air, suspended behind the caped man as they bounded from rooftop to rooftop. The streets of Knockturn sped by below them. Row upon row of old, decrepit shops, curtains pulled tightly shut to hide the seedy goings-on thereof. Thorfinn had never fully realized what a difference there was between there and Diagon Alley till he was viewing it all from above. Worn, soiled pathways merged into clean, fresh cobblestone, and even in the dead of night, this side of town shone like a beacon, its streetlamps glinting merrily through the darkness.

Down they descended to the streets below, the man skidding across a wall with his gloved hands like a gecko, Thorfinn floating along behind him. Around a corner, and then he could see that they'd come to an open courtyard, a looming structure posed ominously on one side. It was with a flip of his stomach that Thorfinn realized it was the Ministry.

After the war, everyone had been fearful about security. The organization's answer had been to shut down all previously used entrances and erect a new one in the heart of this bustling wizarding neighborhood. Now anyone who wished to set foot in Ministry property ― staff or otherwise ― had to first go through this checkpoint, and once they'd been cleared, they would then be permitted to Floo from one of the many fireplaces inside directly to their underground Atrium. The building was enormous, its white marble pillars reaching up to the sky to rival that of Gringotts, a reminder of the Ministry of Magic's all-too-powerful presence in their community.

It was right in the middle of the steps leading up to its doors that the cloaked figure plopped Thorfinn down on his side. From there, he was finally able to get a better look at him ― much to his chagrin.

He was dressed all in black, wearing thick, leather gloves and Hungarian Horntail boots that looked like they could crush skulls. His head was covered by a large hood, the cape trailing off of it hanging down to his knees. Underneath, he had on a form fitting catsuit that looked to be made of a thin, yet protective material, although it left little to the imagination. His face was difficult to make out in the darkness, and Thorfinn realized why as soon as he crouched down, withdrawing his wand from a holster at his side. A mask covered it ― one Thorfinn was quite familiar with, having worn it himself on more occasions than he could count. It was different, however. The eye sockets had green points drawn around them like some twisted Muggle clown, an exaggerated and terrifying red smile painted from cheek to cheek across the mouth slit beneath. And from it's center, a pink tongue, sticking out down to the chin, that looked like it was blowing him a raspberry.

So the rumors _had_ been true. From what he'd heard around, there wasn't man nor woman could do business in this town anymore without this little sod ruining all the fun. Thorfinn had wanted so badly to believe it was all talk, but he couldn't very well do that anymore, not now he was staring the man himself in the face.

"Why are you doing this?" he shouted in a sudden panic. "Who the hell are you, anyway?"

"Me?"

The figure chuckled ― a warm, honeysuckle sound that was so self-satisfied it made Thorfinn itch to smack the smirk he was no doubt wearing under that mask right off his pompous face. His voice was being altered, probably by some spell or device. It came out garbled, gruff, and unnatural. Yet it was odd, but…For some reason, Thorfinn had the unsettling notion that it was one he should recognize.

"I guess you can call me…the Black Adder."

With that, the man raised his wand. The last thing Thorfinn saw was a burst of bright sparks headed straight for his forehead.

☠               ☠               ☠

A shrill sound pierced the early morning quiet.

Ron Weasley bolted upright, his heart thudding in his chest. Long-trained Auror instincts kicked in, and he reached back to grope for his wand where it should have been hanging in its holster from his bedpost. Finding nothing but air, his fingers scrambled across the bed, searching for where it might've fallen.

Only he realized rather quickly he _wasn't_ in his bed.

Under his hand was not the soft mattress he'd been expecting, but a firm cloth cushion. He blinked, and the fog in his eyes began to clear. From where he sat, he could see the line of bookshelves that should've been in his living room on one side, the island where the kitchen began on the other. Looking down, he discovered that he was in fact on the sofa, half wrapped in the flimsy, old afghan that was usually draped across the back, and still wearing the same clothes from yesterday. His holster was still strapped around his shoulders as well, his wand currently digging painfully into his side. A bleary-eyed check of his watch told him it had been barely three hours since he'd finally come home from the office ― and apparently blacked out without so much as taking his shoes off. Or finishing the leftover takeout he'd warmed up, the container of which sat open on the coffee table.

It only took a beat for him to come to the conclusion that there was absolutely no reason for him to be awake right now. He was two seconds away from flopping down again when suddenly full awareness came surging through his brain like rushing water, and he remembered why he'd woken up in the first place.

Someone was shouting ― and he had a feeling he knew exactly who it was.

" _Shit_ ," he cursed under his breath as he sprang to his feet, banging his shin on the coffee table and nearly toppling over onto his nose. Nursing his bruised leg, he clambered across the room ― over a pile of garbage bags he'd neglected to take out the day before and a discarded overcoat ― till he finally wrenched open the door.

And nearly collided with the source of the noise.

Just outside his doorstep, a telltale red envelope hung suspended in midair. So that's what that tapping had been about an hour ago. He'd been floating in that realm between half awake and half comatose at the time, and was almost entirely certain he'd imagined it. Damn owl must've found another way in.

The folds of the parchment flapped together as the recorded voice continued to bellow in his face. He was still barely awake enough to register all it was saying, but it was none other than his Head of Department, just as he'd suspected. Fantastic. Nothing he loved more than being battered about by _her_ first thing in the morning. That was when he realized the letter had started a small fire on his doormat, and he quickly moved to stamp it out with the heel of his boot. It left the poor thing even more damaged than it had been thus far. Now it would greet anyone who came by his flat with 'WLCOM ME', and if that wasn't just pathetic.

The Howler was causing such a ruckus that the old crone down the hall had poked her head out to peer suspiciously at him from around her door. When he noticed, she gave him a stern look before turning up her hooked nose and snapping it shut. As soon as she was out of sight, he lifted a finger in salute, then grabbed a corner of the letter as tentatively as he could and dragged it inside, trying not to set himself ablaze along the way.

"― THIRD TIME THIS WEEK ―"

Ron didn't have to listen all that closely to know exactly what this was about. Seeing as there was no use avoiding the inevitable, he decided to start getting ready for the day in favor of an additional hour or two of sleep. He headed into the bedroom, peeling off his layers as he went. The letter left bits of ash in its wake as it trailed along behind him.

"― BEEN WORKING ON THAT CASE FOR MONTHS ―"

A hot shower soothed his muscles, sore from lack of rest and the awkward position he'd been laying in. He stood under the stream for longer than was entirely necessary, warring with himself over whether it was really worth it to go in, or if he should just call off ill. He knew before the idea had even occurred to him which he was going to choose.

"― THOUGHT YOU HAD THIS HANDLED ―"

By the time he was toweling off, the Howler had thankfully ceased its tirade, and had even been so kind as to leave its shredded remains in a tidy little pile on his bedroom carpet. He brushed his teeth, shot a quick Hot-Air Charm at his hair and combed it, and threw on a fresh uniform ― making a mental note to set aside some time for laundry on the weekend. The remnants of the letter he spelled into the takeout box on his coffee table, before dumping the whole thing into one of the bags by the door. Garbage in hand, he trudged to the lift, then out and around back to the dumpster, where after having made his deposit, he promptly spun on his heel.

Diagon Alley was just beginning to wake up itself when he arrived at the Apparition point ― a designated spot the Ministry had put into place in the interest of added security. There were constant reminders of the war everywhere, but the pleasantness of the day was already making up for it. The sun was rising, streetlamps winking out each in turn. Shop owners could be seen unshuttering their windows and flipping the signs on their doors as he trudged down the winding pathways. A small mass of Ministry officials was surging towards the checkpoint in the courtyard, and Ron stepped into file behind them, withdrawing his wand.

Olivia smiled and greeted him with a friendly, 'Good morning, Auror Weasley'. He waited as she checked his wand and scanned his body with her own, glancing idly at the rows of similar workstations along either side of her, already busy as well with their individual queues. Once he was cleared for entry, he along with several others passed through into the second, smaller hall, where the line of Floos awaited them. He chose the closest unoccupied one and stepped inside, vanishing in a whoosh of viridescent flames that proceeded to spit him out into the Ministry's Atrium.

He had just arrived at his desk, munching on a Pumpkin Pasty he'd snagged from the early morning trolley, when Harry looked up from where he'd been conversing with Neville, his expression haggard.

"She wants to see you."

Ron wanted to look incredulous, but decided it wasn't worth the effort. He'd expected this. From the moment he'd stepped out of the lift onto Level Two, he'd been bombarded with the exact type of noise and chaos that had only accompanied a very particular occurrence over the past few months. Employees from all departments could be seen flitting back and forth between their offices out in the hall ― and inside the Auror Department itself was in complete disarray, with every single desk filled (even those of employees that typically worked the night shift), Fire-calls being conducted on all sides, and interoffice memos zooming through the air above like little lilac hummingbirds.

"What, _now_? Can I at least finish my breakfast first?"

"Sorry, mate," Harry smiled apologetically, "she said to send you as soon as you got here. It's urgent."

Ron was still brushing crumbs from his fingers when he entered Hermione's corner office to find her hunched over her desk, scribbling furiously on a slip of purple parchment. She didn't bother to look up till she'd finished, tapping the paper, which quickly folded itself into a more aerodynamic shape and soared away. Ron held the door open, shutting it with a snap as soon as the letter was gone and stepping towards her.

"It's him again, isn't it?"

The expression on her face told him more than words could've possibly managed.

"He left us another little gift this morning. I just know the press'll have a field day with that one tomorrow. I've been dodging Fire-calls from them left and right since I got in."

"Rowle, right?"

"Unfortunately."

Ron grimaced. He'd been hoping he'd heard that bit from the Howler wrong. Lack of evidence had lost them the charges against Thorfinn Rowle after the war. For years, they'd been keeping a close watch on him, hoping one day he'd slip up and they'd have him. Then they'd caught wind of him being involved in an illegal flying carpet ring, and thought it was the chance they'd been waiting for. Well, they'd gotten him now ― but he knew everyone would've much preferred they'd gotten him on their own terms.

A kettle heating under a Charm on her sideboard whistled. She pushed away from her desk in irritation and crossed to pour herself a cup.

" _Eight months_ Roberts and Thompson had been working on that case. They'd been this close," she held her thumb and forefinger a centimeter's width apart to prove her point, "to getting to Rowle, and subsequently taking down the entire operation, when all of a sudden this vigilante character swoops in and packages up not only him, but two of the younger ones as well, like it was nothing! I'm just glad he was found early enough that none of the shoppers had seen him. What an embarrassment _that_ would've been."

"Yeah. Lucky, that."

She suddenly slammed the mug down at the edge of her desk, huffing a puff of frustrated air through her nose. "Is that all you have to say? Half a year now we've been dealing this. Gotten up to nearly three instances a week in the last month! I thought you'd said you had this vigilante case handled ― I'd expected you would've done something about it by now!"

A bubble of indignation burst in his chest. "Well, perhaps if I'd gotten a touch more sleep this morning, I'd be inclined to say more."

"I ―" Her fingers flexed, and she shut her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry. The news has gotten up to Shacklebolt now, and he's been hounding me since we found Rowle for an explanation of what we're going to do about this. I didn't send that Howler to take it out on you, more just to ―"

"Vent. I know. It's alright."

Seeing her look so defeated, Ron felt his anger quickly subside into concern. As she gradually calmed herself, he took another step forward, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. She turned into the gesture, allowing his arm to circle around her as she buried her face into his chest. He smoothed her frizzy hair and pressed a friendly kiss to the top of her head. Several moments later, they parted, her smiling in thanks as she waved her hand towards the kettle.

"Did you want…?"

"No, thanks. So. What _are_ we going to do about it?"

As she returned to her chair, he settled himself into the one across. Now that he was looking at her through a different set of emotions, he could plainly see how exhausted she was. The patches under her eyes might've even been darker than his, and that was saying something. He watched as she took a sip of tea to steel herself.

"I want those steps surveilled on a regular basis, for a start. As much time as we can devote to it. We need to keep up on our other cases, of course, but we also can't afford to let him sully our reputation any longer. Although he hasn't shown a predictable pattern yet, we know he operates solely at night, and thus we need to make sure that area is being watched as many evenings as we can."

"Guess I'll just stop sleeping and eating altogether, then, won't I? I'm already close enough as it is, these days."

She softened at that, her brows knitting together. For a moment, she looked like she wanted to hug him again. Ron rubbed a hand across his mouth and glanced away, suddenly feeling uncomfortably vulnerable and instantly regretting he'd said anything at all.

"If you need me to pass the case on to someone else, I can."

If he wasn't mistaken, she looked like she might've been further rethinking how she'd woken him up that morning. To tell the truth, he wasn't that upset about it now that some time had passed. They'd all been a bit on edge lately around here.

Seven years since the war had ended, and there were still far too many Death Eaters and sympathizers walking free for his liking ― or anyone's. The community had made their displeasure over this clear on several occasions. Some were in hiding, or had fled the country. Others they hadn't had enough evidence to arrest or convict. He could understand that, even if he didn't want to. Unfortunately, that sort of thing wasn't as easy to explain to the general populace. Since first Hermione and then Harry had been promoted, their team had been working around-the-clock to put things to rights as best they could. That wasn't even to mention all the other cases they had on their docket. Times were definitely hard ― and now there was this wanker running about and making them look even worse. Ron didn't envy either of them for the responsibility that had been dumped so precariously on both their shoulders. He could deal with a Howler every now and then, if that's what it took to keep Hermione sane and prevent her from blowing up on someone who didn't know her as well.

"You could take a couple days ―"

"No!" Ron felt a wave of shame wash over him at the suggestion. Her disappointment, he could handle. Her pity, he could do without. He wasn't the only one being overworked around here. If the rest of them could handle it, then so could he. It wasn't that he hadn't wanted to do his job, to catch this cape-wearing madman and potentially put their department in good standing once again. It was just that there were other pressing cases at hand, as well, and only so many hours in the day. "No, it's ― it's alright, I've got it."

"I know you do." And he knew when she said that, she meant it. With sigh, she added, "I'll admit: maybe nightly surveillance is a tad much. But make no mistake, I want this vigilante's arse on a platter. No one makes a mockery of my team and gets away with it. Whatever you can do to assure he's held accountable for the way he's made us look in the press, I'll support it."

"Yes, ma'am." He gave her a fake salute. She laughed, and he smiled back, feeling the tension between them ebbing away.

His gaze dropped to a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ spread out in front of her. He wondered how he hadn't noticed it before. Its front page blared with the headline **IDENTITY OF KNOCKTURN'S MIDNIGHT CRUSADER REVEALED** ― and the article was written by none other than Pansy Parkinson, which shouldn't have come as a shock. She'd turned into one of the _Prophet's_ star reporters, and seemingly this tights wearing watchdog's biggest fan. Below the title, a photo of the masked maniac himself could be seen preening for the camera from his perch at the edge of a rooftop, his cape billowing in the wind. Ron leaned forward to splay his fingers over the page and turned it, his heart missing a beat. For a brief moment, he thought someone might have discovered who it really was ― but it only took reading the first sentence to show that such hopes were utterly dismal in these times. He should've known.

Even as he scanned the article, his attention kept diverting unwittingly to the picture above. Every so often, the wind would blow _just right_ , the man would angle himself into the light from the lamppost just so, and Ron would feel his mouth go dry. Muscles flexed through the tight jumpsuit he wore. Strong hands held firm to the rain gutter below him. He didn't look like a bodybuilder, but he was toned, perpetually poised for swift action. The man carried himself in a cocky way that was equal parts infuriating and oddly arousing. Reminded him of someone else he knew. And when his cape brushed back far enough to show off the shape of that arse, Ron knew he was doomed. It was a dangerous road he was traveling down, he knew it, but...

He'd discovered just how far he could go on one fateful night a couple months back, after he'd stumbled home from having a drink ― or two or three or four ― at the pub with Harry, Dean, and Seamus. The former had gone home to Ginny, the latter to each other, and Ron had gone home to no one except his own right hand and a flattering photograph of the mystery crusader flirting up at him from the front page of the _Prophet_ where he'd left it on the kitchen counter earlier that morning. Apparently, there was very little he could do to turn back after that.

Now he had a name to pair with the good looks. Well, not a _real_ one, but it was better than nothing, he supposed.

He shook his head, trying to clear it as he covered up his distraction with a chuckle. He wasn't about to make the glaring faux pas of getting a stiffy in front of one of his best friends (and ex-girlfriend) ― least of all to a picture of some masked anonymous. He didn't want anyone to know he was attracted to someone like that. He hardly even liked believing it himself. It had been far too long since he'd had someone to go home to, but really.

"He's got a name now?"

"Apparently," she snorted. "The Black Adder...Now I'm just wondering who's his Baldrick."

"Sorry?"

"Nevermind." She waved the comment away, shaking with laughter. " _Vipera berus_ happens to be the only species of venomous snake in the UK. I'm sure it has something to do with that."

Ron shrugged it off, having learned quite some time ago to assume that whenever she and Harry made a reference he didn't understand, it was probably a Muggle thing.

"I'll see what sort of pattern I can suss out. Get a feel for which nights we should plan to stakeout. Might be good if I speak with Parkinson, as well ― see how she seems to know so much about this 'Black Adder'."

"That's a start. Thanks, Ron."

"Of course."

He returned to his desk in the main room with the image of the Black Adder still burned into his brain. Heat bloomed around his collar from more than just the stress of the case laid in front of him. Neville looked up from perusing his own copy of the paper at the adjoining workstation, and Ron convinced himself not to look down at it when he heard him ask:

"I take it she expects us to step up on this 'Black Adder' case, then?"

"Yes, I'd say she wants it to be our top priority, now."

"I've been trying, but I can't make heads nor tails of where he'll be every night. Seems he's got his hands in just about every crime right out there. Almost never the same place twice. And it's not always Death Eaters, either. You got any ideas?"

Ron sighed, tearing his eyes away from the cork board on the wall behind his partner's head. The Black Adder's clown-like visage grinned mockingly at him from every angle, making his blood boil for more reasons than one.

"All I know is we've gotta find him. Wherever he is."


	2. Chapter 2

It was the wee hours of the morning that Thorfinn Rowle had been delivered to the steps of the DMLE, and the downs of Wiltshire had not yet begun to stir. The sun had just peeked the tips of its rays over the distant horizon, spreading warmth across the landscape and banishing the fog that had preceded it. Nestled in one of those lush valleys sat Malfoy Manor, still standing as proud and ominous as it had for centuries. And had anyone bothered to peer over the hedges surrounding the estate, they might've seen an all black-clad figure popping into existence on the lawn with a dissonant crack.

The man walked the grounds with the ease of someone comfortable with their surroundings, his boots crunching in the dewy grass and his cape fluttering in the breeze. He trudged along the gravel path in the center and jogged up the porch steps. The wards parted for him gladly as he laid a hand on one of the large double doors and dragged it open. The silence that greeted him inside the home was blissful. He tugged the drawstrings on his cape and removed his mask, a shock of pale blond hair and fair skin emerging from underneath.

Draco Malfoy gave a grateful sigh as he massaged his Adam's apple, charming his voice back to normal, the spell that had altered it washing away like the burning heat of a strong scotch. There was nothing like coming home after a long night's work ― especially a home as wonderfully empty and peaceful as this one was. Long gone were the days when it would've been bustling with servants, or ― worse yet ― the Dark Lord and his brood. In the years following the war, Draco had done the best he could to clean this place up and wash away the grim and dingy stain that demon had left upon it.

The trials had been merciful to his parents. He loved them, of course, but he often wondered if they'd deserved it. They'd each served barely two years in Azkaban before they were released ― and they'd packed and set off for Italy the second they'd arrived home, and never looked back. They'd left him with this massive house, an astronomical fortune, and nothing at all to do with himself. With his inheritance, he wouldn't have to worry about how he was going to make any money for several decades, at the very least ― and even if he _did_ need to find work, no one would hire a former Death Eater except for the companies that had supported them, and that would've just put him right back where he'd started. He'd flitted around for years ― travelling, helping Blaise Zabini with his magical gadget business, getting himself in shape ― till even all that had become a bore. It hadn't been until about two years ago that he'd felt he'd finally found his purpose.

The parlour was warm. A fire crackled behind the grate, as if it had been waiting for him. His cape and mask he dumped just inside the door. He unhooked the wand holster strapped around his shoulders and let it slide down his arms to the floor, then peeled off his gloves and discarded them on top. He stumbled across the room, unlacing his boots with wandless magic and kicking them off as he went.

It had been quite the week. Five consecutive all-nighters, three major arrests, plus the additional two ― needless to say, he was exhausted. He could barely keep his eyes open as he slumped into the wing chair closest to the hearth, swinging his long legs up over an arm as he settled against the pillow squashed into the opposite side. Everything ached. He was bound and determined to take a nice, long soak at some point today ― whenever he managed to convince his body to move again.

It was just as he was beginning to doze off that the Manor's second occupant made himself known. (Actually, he might've already fallen asleep for a time, for all he really knew.) A popping sound came from somewhere over by the doorway, followed by the soft patter of tiny feet across the carpet. The savory scent of breakfast wafted on the air.

"Good morning, Master Draco."

"G'morning, Noorey."

"I trust the evening went well?"

"Very well, thank you."

There was a clank behind his head, and Draco opened an eye, craning his neck to see that a silver serving tray had been set down on the end table beside him. Two white china plates sat on top ― one laden with a fried egg and tomato and two fat sausage links, the other toast with marmalade. A pot of tea and its matching cup accompanied them. The small creature who'd brought him the breakfast was just laying out a cloth napkin and silverware and spelling tea into the cup when Draco straightened himself up a little more to snatch a piece of toast.

Malfoy Manor used to be home to a number of house-elves. It didn't rival Hogwarts, of course, but back in the old days, it would've been very unusual indeed to hear of any witch or wizard residing there doing very much for themselves without an elf's assistance. However, just as many things had changed in the outside world since the war, there was a great deal different now within the Manor's walls. After his parents had fled the country, Draco had taken it upon himself to liberate all of the servants in their employ. It was a barbaric and outdated practice, even he could admit that. Most of them went to work for the school ― others to wherever it was that truly free elves went. But one in particular had remained.

Noorey had always been Draco's favorite, but he was biased. He'd wager he probably spent more time with him in his childhood than his own parents. Already grown himself, the elf had been tasked since the little heir's birth with raising him and tending to his daily needs ― whether that be to get him up in the morning, tidy his room, help with his summer homework, or darn his socks. So when the time had come ― when Draco had gone down the line and presented them each with an item of clothing and their freedom ― Noorey had taken the gift gladly, but refused to leave. In his words, he had lived the last twenty years as Draco's man, and he was going to die as Draco's man, fate permitting.

Noorey was really playing up the butler routine today with his navy waistcoat and tailored trousers. Draco realized after a moment that he didn't recognize the outfit, and thus he must've purchased it himself. He did love his clothes. House-elves still didn't have all the rights that Granger and her S.P.E.W. group might've desired, and they couldn't own bank accounts ― so Draco had opened a second one himself, into which he frequently deposited gold for Noorey to spend however he liked. The elf even had his own living quarters, in the east wing ― which of course included plenty of closet space.

"Hot off the press, sir," Noorey announced as he withdrew a folded newspaper from under his arm and dropped it into Draco's lap, his uncharacteristically posh accent as crisp as ever. He'd spent too many years in his young master's close proximity to have maintained the typical house-elf vernacular, and well...Noorey had always been a special sort, anyhow.

Draco noticed with a grin that the string that normally bound a fresh paper was missing. Noorey must've already read through it before bringing it to him, which told him it contained an article on the Black Adder. Probably the one Pansy had been promising ― she'd said it would come out some day this week.

"Feel free to leave your things anywhere you like, sir."

Draco scooted up in his seat to see Noorey bending over to pick up one of his boots and waved his hand hurriedly. "Oh, don't worry about those, I can get them later."

"Don't be silly, it's my pleasure. Why, if I ever had to spend a day without picking up your laundry, I don't know what I'd do with myself."

That was the real reason why he loved Noorey: he was never one to tolerate his shit. Knowing that there was no use in arguing with him about it, Draco unfolded the paper and settled back into his chair, pushing the remaining corner of the toast into his mouth.

He smiled to himself, sucking the excess marmalade off his thumb as his eyes scanned the front page. Yes, it was indeed the one he'd been waiting for. Identity revealed, though? Bit of a misleading title there, but whatever ― probably sold more papers that way. And now the world had something to call him by. He felt a little silly about it, sure, but he'd heard that's what the Muggle versions of him did. They had all sorts of goofy names, so the public could talk about them without their secret identity getting blown. So why not give himself one, too?

Just then, his attention was drawn to the picture of him beneath the title, and a bubble of laughter burst in his throat.

"Well," he breathed in amazement, "I look quite fit, don't I?"

Noorey gave an absentminded hum, but said nothing. Salazar bless Pansy and her camera lens. She really had a knack for it. The shots she took of him were far from candid, but only to the untrained eye. He often wondered how long it would take for someone to figure out that she must know who the Black Adder was in order to have this inside scoop at all times, but it wasn't something that really concerned him. At least not yet.

Moving on to the article itself ― _'has, arguably, lead to the incarceration of more Death Eaters in the past six months than the Aurors had in '98 and '99 put together', ouu, good one, Pans_ ― Draco reached back and picked the tea cup off the tray. The first sip was refreshing, warm, and soothing. Just what he'd needed. It was followed, however, by another taste that as all too familiar.

"Noorey." The elf looked up from draping Draco's cape over his arm. The blond swallowed again, feeling the inside of his throat tingle and burn with what could only be Firewhiskey. "Did you…?"

"Thought you could use a bit of a pick-me-up this morning, Master Draco."

Draco laughed at that because, well, it was true. He took another larger gulp and reverted his attention back to the article.

"Would you like me to run you a bath, sir?"

"Not just now, Noorey, but thank you. Maybe in a little while."

"Of course, you deserve your rest," he agreed, wobbling back over with Draco's belongings bundled in his arms. "Now, I don't want to hear of you being in that rec room downstairs today. You've had enough excitement for one week." He brought the end of a glove down on the top of Draco's head to emphasize his point. "And you better eat that whole plate, you hear me? You need your strength, especially these days."

"Yes, yes," Draco snorted playfully, brushing him off. Noorey headed for the door, but something seemed to stop him about halfway. Draco watched with a raised eyebrow as he slowly turned back around.

"If I may, Master Draco, I just wanted to say that ― all this mess aside," he waved a hand at the bundle of discarded costume and Draco's prone form on the chair, "I think what you're doing is a truly wonderful thing."

Draco swallowed again, but this time it had nothing to do with the tea.

"Didn't know you had such kind things to say, Noorey, least of all about me," he teased, but he could tell in the way the elf smiled that he understood the true meaning behind the words.

"And don't you tell a soul about it, either. I have a reputation to keep, you know."

A beat ― in which Draco thought on that, and then couldn't help but laugh aloud, as he couldn't come to any other conclusion than ―

"A reputation _where_?"

"None of your business where!"

With a wink and a twist of his heel, the elf was gone, leaving Draco howling with laughter ― and already feeling a thousand times better.

☠               ☠               ☠

The _Daily Prophet's_ headquarters lived in the heart of Diagon Alley's southern end. The bottom two floors had been gutted to house the presses, with the administrative offices above. It stood out there between Ollivander's, Gambol and Japes, and several other small shops, relics of times past. Rumor had it they were looking to revamp the area, make it as lively and open to the public as the rest of the district was. Draco wasn't sure yet whether or not that was something the _Prophet_ would be happy about.

That morning, he strode off the lift on level three, a vase of wildflowers tucked under one arm.

"Hello, Jeanine. Pansy in?"

The receptionist looked up from her _Witch Weekly_ with a put-upon expression. Draco's otherwise award-winning smile did nothing to dazzle her. Smacking her Drooble's, she tapped her wand on the intercom at the upper corner of her desk. It flashed violet, and she leaned forward.

"Mr. Malfoy here to see you, Miss."

"Draco!"

Pansy was already waiting for him in her doorway with an expectant little smile. She'd set herself up with a cushy office against the far wall of the main room. He crossed the sea of clerks and interns to plant a kiss on her cheek and push the vase into her hands. He could see her desire to balk at the gift written all over her face. Years upon years she'd spent building up her reputation for being a tough as nails, independent woman, who couldn't be bought with such frivolities as flowers and cheap candy. While much of that did in fact remain true, she had her weak spots, same as anyone ― and no one knew her quite like Draco did.

"You should've told me you'd be stopping by."

"What, I can't surprise you once in awhile?"

As soon as her office door snapped shut behind him, effectively drowning out the din from outside, he felt her familiar magic wash over him. She couldn't have had any less than five high level Silencing Charms installed at all times. He remembered fondly what she'd told him the first time he'd come to visit: _Can't ever be too careful around here, love. Bunch of nosy parkers, they are._

"What's the occasion?"

"Just a little something to say thank you for how good you've been making me look in the papers lately. Or, making the Black Adder look, I suppose I should say."

"Oh, pfft. Those guys out there go crazy for this shite, you have no idea. I barely had to say a word, you were going to be on that front page no matter what."

She crossed to set the vase on the low bookshelf in front of the window. Draco tried not to feel _too_ triumphant as she went about arranging the bouquet, ensuring that it was in a spot to get enough sunlight, and lingering to sniff the purple veronicas stretching out from the top. Satisfied with their placement, she returned to the seat behind her desk.

"You know I'm not much of a flower girl, Draco."

He smirked. "I didn't think Merlot and a new pair of stilettos would be appropriate. I'll treat you to lunch as well, if you're free."

"I'm always free for you." She winked, and he chuckled as he settled into the chair across from her. "Just let me finish this up, and we'll be off."

For a time, the only sound in the room was the scratching of her corrections quill, scribbling bright red ink across the pages of what Draco assumed to be her next article. He took the time to peruse her new office, and decided he already liked it better than her last. It was bigger, for one, and the view was much nicer as well, her window opening out to the street below, rather than to the old brick of the building next door. She'd added a couple more bookshelves ― one with old editions of the _Prophet_ , some from rival publications, and journalistic texts; the other, a collection of her favorite classics.

Behind her desk stood a glass case, housing various awards that had been given to both her and the paper, among a litany of photographs ― some of her with high ranking officials and celebrities, others her friends and family. He knew she'd put that picture of them from the Yule Ball up there just to spite him. Even a glimpse of his hair back then made him want to vomit. Not to mention how appalled they'd both been when they'd found it again a couple years back and recalled how much they'd fawned over each other. Time had made wiser lovers of them both ― and, thankfully, helped them to realize that they both had… _other_ proclivities.

It was then that he finally noticed it.

Against the wall near the door was a sideboard, covered in papers. At first, he'd dismissed it, of course thinking she worked for a newspaper agency, for Merlin's sake, it wasn't exactly unusual to find their product all over her office. But now that he leaned over in his chair to take a closer look, he could see that these were very particular issues: namely, all those containing photos of the Black Adder's clown-like mug.

He hadn't ever realized just how many articles had been written on him ― not till now, when stacks and stacks of them were staring him in the face. He'd kept quite a few at the Manor, but he'd never taken the time to really think about it. Now that he was looking, he could even see it out on the main floor through the window by the door ― rows of desks, cork boards posted on the walls behind them, covered in cutouts of him bounding over rooftops, his cape fluttering behind him.

"I'm becoming rather famous now, aren't I?"

She didn't look up, but he could still see her eyes rolling. "You were already famous ―"

" _Infamous_ , more like."

"Draco Malfoy, the reformed ex-Death Eater, wealthy heir to a tarnished, but possibly repairable family name. You're in the papers nearly every other week as it is, why would you want more of that?"

"This is different. They don't know it's me. Anyway, it's not really about the papers."

She paused in writing for a moment, pursing her aubergine-painted lips. "You know, I haven't been asking you this because I fear it would influence my writing too much. I don't want to start getting into the Black Adder's personal philosophies and give everyone reason to question _even more_ how I know so much about him. But. Why are you doing it, really?"

Draco felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristling. It was a relatively simple question. It shouldn't have made him nervous, shouldn't have made him twitch under the intensity of her dark brown eyes. Unfortunately, nothing even remotely like this had ever been simple for either of them.

He knew how it must look to his friends: being raised all his life to praise the Dark Lord, to serve the good of pure-blood kind ― with his _life_ , if asked ― and now...spending his nights putting those same men he marched alongside behind bars. Pansy had been there, too. Not as a Death Eater, nor the child of one, but as a proud pure-blooded witch, standing up for what she had believed at the time to be right. It was hard to come back from something like that, in this society. She'd tried, as had Theo, and even Greg and Blaise. But there was never any lack of scrutiny from their one-time enemies ― and none of them had attempted to accomplish what he was now.

"Why? Because these people deserve to be in jail ―"

"Yes, I know that, but ―"

"I mean, take Rowle, for instance ― he tortured and killed who knows how many people, and _somehow_ he managed to escape without so much as a slap on the wrist! It doesn't make any sense."

"I _know_ , but you know how the legal system is. Rarely ever works out the way you'd expect."

"Well, I think the whole lot of them should've been chucked in Azkaban the day after the war ended, no trials necessary."

"I hate to remind you that, were that the case, you would've been among them. Not to mention your parents would still be there as well."

The look in Pansy's eyes was infuriatingly sympathetic. He almost would've preferred if she'd gone for patronizing.

The truth was that the world they'd been brought up in hadn't seemed so rosy anymore by the time they'd had to watch their friends, their family, their classmates, die for it. Draco had been questioning it for years by then. Pansy, he knew, had been a bit more resistant, but she'd really come around. The truth was that he, his parents, and many others he'd cared deeply about, had suffered at the hands of their 'Lord', and for no discernable reason that he could ever find. He'd felt the uselessness of it the day he'd taken the Mark, which he still bore ― an eternal reminder. He'd felt the uselessness of it the night he'd held a wand to his Headmaster. A man he may have disagreed with from time to time, sure, but had never wanted _dead_. Had never imagined he would be forced to _murder_. He'd felt the uselessness of it when his parents had turned and fled from battle, taking him with them, abandoning kin and opponent alike, after everything they'd spent years instilling in him, after everything they'd made so many sacrifices for.

"Yeah, well. Sometimes I think we got off too easy."

He'd ruined Draco's life; Lord Voldemort, and his 'morals', and his idiotic band of lunatics running about shouting for wizards' rights and thinking that mutilating people was the way to get them. His family had done horrible things in that man's name. _He'd_ done horrible things. And he'd wasted so much time after the war doing nothing other than piddling his life away because he'd thought _that_ was his penitence ― to lead a life of drink and monotony and to never enter the same man's bed twice.

He wasn't sure when, exactly, the thought had occurred to him. It might've been that morning in Hong Kong, after he'd returned from the kung fu class he'd signed up for on a whim ― a Muggle thing, yes, but he'd heard friends he'd made in the city talking about the sheer strength and grace of those artists, and he'd thought why not give it a go. He'd been sitting at the breakfast table in his hotel room, feeling exhausted, but more _alive_ than he had been in years, reading an article in the _Prophet_ he'd had specially delivered about another failed Death Eater conviction, and something inside him had clicked.

He'd been weak as a boy, he'd admit that. As a man, he had time and money and resources, and...he knew he had to do _something_. He had to do what he could to put away the people who'd made those years a living hell. Where the Aurors had failed, he would pick up the slack. And so he'd trained more, he'd studied up on defensive potions and spells, he'd consulted with Blaise on different devices he could use to his advantage ― and then he'd returned home to England and donned a costume just to mock them. It hadn't been for the fame, for the recognition. He hadn't even dreamed that anyone would notice what he was doing in the first place. That his mask had graced the front page of nearly every paper for weeks on end had been a startling turn of events, to say the least.

All of that was what he wanted to tell Pansy, about _why_ he was doing this. Yet, without saying much of anything at all, he could already see she understood why from the uncharacteristically kind smile that spread across her lips.

"That's what I wanted to hear. I support you, Draco, I do. I just want to make sure that if you're going to all this trouble, it's at least for the right reasons."

A calm settled over them as she returned to her editing. That was, until Pansy spoke again, a lilt of amusement in her voice.

"My Floo has been blowing up lately, by the way. Calls night and day, looking for information about you. Or the Black Adder, anyway."

She was leading up to something, he could tell. Part of him knew to fear what it might be, if he knew anything about her at all.

"Really?"

"Guess who I had the pleasure of speaking with just this morning?"

"Who?"

"Ronald Weasley."

Draco's mouth ran dry.

"Why would Weasley call you?"

"Says he's the lead Auror on the Black Adder case."

Then he momentarily forgot how to breathe.

"Weasley's in charge of my case?"

"Apparently. Taken quite a notice to how much I've been writing about you lately, all the pictures I've been publishing. Wanted to know if I had more information than just what I've been putting in my articles. Told him no, of course ― but I warned you this might happen."

Draco swallowed, his cheeks heating. With a light cough, he looked away, out the window to his left and down to a gaggle of shoppers far below. Ron Weasley was in charge of his case. It would be, wouldn't it? Had been that way for years, after all; Draco couldn't go anywhere, do anything, without Potter and his crew hot on his heels. He should've guessed it would've been one of them.

Yet, it wasn't annoyance he was feeling.

Just then, he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned back to catch her smirking at him. Merlin, he hated that look. He knew what it meant without having to ask, but he did anyway, feigning innocence.

"What?"

Pansy shrugged nonchalantly, but the expression didn't falter. "Nothing."

"Sure."

"I just know you've always been a bit, well...obsessed with him, is all."

"Obsessed?"

"Or maybe _preoccupied_ is more to your liking ―"

"I was the same way with Potter. Worse than, actually. Granger as well, on occasion."

"Oh, I wouldn't exactly call it 'the same'."

Draco snorted, turned away again. Damn her. She was too perceptive for her own good. But unfortunately, she wasn't wrong. It was something indescribable, the feeling of knowing that any time he was putting the Aurors to shame, it was in fact _Weasley_ who he was probably tormenting most of all. This was a feeling he'd rejoiced in for many years ― and it hadn't ever been solely for the reasons most had chosen to believe.

"You're insufferable."

"You mean _insightful_."

She laughed, and Salazar, he couldn't help but do it, too.

"Anyway." The tip of her quill clicked as she slid it back into its holder. "Shall we?"

The air was brisk, but the streets of Diagon Alley's main quarter were still busy as ever. They meandered along behind the rest, taking their time, chatting about this and that and arguing over where they should eat. Pansy had suggested that new cafe he'd been raving about lately, but he'd promptly turned it down. Weasley and his Auror partner, Longbottom, had been making frequent appearances there of late, and he'd already taken enough ribbing from her about _that_ particular person for one day.

Just as they'd rounded a corner, deciding to head for that sandwich shop they'd been hearing so much about, Draco paused, furrowing his brow. There was a large crowd congregating to one side of the street, blocking most of the way. It took him a moment to realize that they were swarming around a newstand.

As they each parted, one by one, he could see the Black Adder's twisted grin flashing up at him from every copy. Next to it, a picture of a tied-up Thorfinn Rowle, lying unconscious at the Ministry's front door. It had only been a couple days since that arrest, and the papers seemed to be flying off the shelves in a way he'd never seen before. Couples, groups of friends, coworkers, shop owners, were scurrying away with smiles on their faces, reading and pointing and sharing in each other's joy, talk of 'the _amazing_ Black Adder' fresh on their lips.

Draco's heart thudded against his ribcage. Pansy smiled knowingly up at him, wrapping her hand around his elbow and giving it a squeeze.

"I think it's safe to say you're famous now, darling."

Draco felt a tightening in his chest ― and whether it was of excitement or apprehension, he honestly couldn't say.


	3. Chapter 3

Draco skimmed his fork along his plate, scooping up the last bite of rice and grilled courgette. The Manor's kitchen was quiet and warm ― just how he liked it on the nights he was preparing to go out. Sometimes Noorey would join him, but not this time, and he thought that might be just as well. He had quite the mission planned tonight, and he'd been enjoying this little respite.

He heard Noorey popping into the room behind him, as if on cue, just as he was delivering everything to the sink, flicking his wand to start them on washing themselves up.

"I could've done that for you, sir."

"I think I'm old enough to clean my own plate now," he teased, but Noorey waved him off with a roll of his big eyes. Draco chalked it up to yet another argument he knew he'd never win and took himself off to the basement, hiding a secretive smile.

Motion-activated candles flickered to life as he descended the staircase, bathing the inner rooms in a welcoming orange glow. The lower level had, at one time, housed the family dungeons ― something Draco had never been quite fond of, for a number reasons. In the years since his parents' depart for Italy, it had seen several renovations, and would probably be completely unrecognizable to them now.

It had started with the laboratory. Draco had always been a fan of potion making, and not just because his favorite professor had taught it, may he rest in peace. He'd been good at, too, he knew he had. For a time after the war, he'd contemplated a career as an apothecary ― followed by a gradually blossoming interest in the life of an Auror and, subsequently, that of the masked and caped. He'd had the cells torn down and put a workbench in their place, complete with a vast storeroom for all the utensils and ingredients he'd ever need. Nowadays, it was a place to develop mixtures and spells to be used in his nightly adventures, as well as some old standards.

The second change had been more for Blaise's benefit than his own. For about a year or so there, Draco had taken to helping him out with what had, back then, been a precariously-new company. Blaise had been prone to tinkering all throughout their adolescence, and the fact that he'd been able to turn that hobby into a thriving shop in Diagon's main quarter had been something Draco had always been immensely impressed over. While they'd been working together, they'd needed places to blueprint and construct the various magical gadgets Blaise intended on selling. He had a space at the store, but Draco had decided to take it a step further and set up one at the Manor as well, just in case they ever wanted to take a moment to get away from it all. He'd been glad he had, too, when he'd started on this whole Black Adder business. Many of Blaise's inventions had come in very handy for him in months past ― he even planned on using a couple of them tonight.

The third had been a personal gym. That initial class in Hong Kong had struck the match, and the passion it had ignited inside him had only continued to spread like wildfire as he broadened his scope. Had he become a master of any of the styles he'd practised in? Of course not. But he'd taken to signing himself up for classes wherever he travelled ― and even at home, in London, as well ― and hitting the gym as often as he could. It wasn't about the muscle mass. He was scrawny, and he knew he'd never be otherwise, no matter how hard he tried. It was about strength, and control, and knowing that, although he may _appear_ weak, he could take down a brute twice his size with a well-placed kick. The room was located in a separate, smaller space at the opposite side, and had been equipped with every piece of Muggle exercise machinery he could get his hands on ― and, in the instances where it was necessary, charm to run without 'ecklectricity,' of course.

Such was the 'lair' of the Black Adder. Naturally, the workers who'd managed to accomplish it all had been paid handsomely for their silence.

Tonight, Draco made a beeline for the rec room, stripping down to the tank top and joggers he'd been wearing beneath his comfy jumper. He fell into his normal routine ― beginning with stretches, plus a few yoga exercises for balance ― followed by some reps on the bench press, leg curls, a round with the punching bag, and so on. He maintained a more even pace than he would for a typical workout, knowing he'd want to keep his energy up for the task ahead.

It was just as the clock struck ten that he returned to the main room, wiping the sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt. Against the back wall, set almost immediately center between the lab and Blaise's tool rack, was what would've appeared to anyone else to be just that: a stone wall. Say the right incantation in the right tone, however, and the final addition to the Black Adder's inner sanctum would be revealed. Draco uttered the familiar words now, watching as a large expanse of rock suddenly broke free, splitting down the middle and sliding off to either side, disappearing into the rest as if intangible.

Inside was a closet ― but not just any. It was a closet full of all the pieces and parts that made the Black Adder what he was to the public eye. On one side, there was a row of black cat suits, complete with several pairs of Hungarian Horntail boots underneath. There were gloves and capes aplenty, plus a couple wand holsters. And finally, shelves of masks, all blowing mocking raspberries at him from where they sat.

Fully suited, he Disapparated from the front lawn, landing at the far edge of Diagon Alley where the Apparition point was stationed. From there, he scaled the nearest wall and took off across the rooftops. One of the first inventions he and Blaise had concocted for him: a sticky residue, coated over the soles of his boots, and sewn into the fibers at his fingertips, able to be activated and deactivated at will, and strong enough to hold him firm as he crawled across various landscapes.

His target for the evening was Slug & Jiggers Apothecary, which even he had been skeptical about when he'd first heard it. A potions shop in Diagon Alley ― not exactly the first place you'd think of when searching for signs of illegal activity. He'd even been known to frequent it, from time to time. But he had confidence in his intel, regardless of any predilections. Adrian Pucey hadn't let him down yet. He was working as an assistant at Borgin and Burkes ― yes, the fact that such a stop could still exist in these times was a mystery to everyone ― and thus had a pretty good 'in' with the local riffraff. Draco had always known he'd liked him; he'd been one of the more trustworthy Slytherins, although they'd never subscribed to the belief that 'all of them are evil', anyway. Why Pucey had chosen to be employed where he was was another matter Draco had agreed to let slide, so long as he kept up the good work for the Black Adder.

Slug & Jiggers had a small, enclosed porch at the back, and it was there that Draco landed, ducking down into the shadows beneath the shuttered window. It was there he intended to wait, as well, knowing as did from a few slip-ups in his early days that there was very little success to be had in just rushing in.

In the inner lining of his cloak, he'd sewn a pocket with an Undetectable Extension Charm. It had been the best way he could think of to carry the potions and gadgets he tended to use in his escapades. Now, he slipped a hand inside, feeling around for a particularly convenient little invention he'd drafted up with Blaise's help.

A tiny egg, decorated with green and silver spots. Once found, he chucked it down onto the ground, where it cracked open, pieces of shell trembling and bubbling and falling further apart, until they'd vanished, leaving a serpent-like shape in their wake. The small creature floated just above the ground, shimmering and translucent and ― most importantly ― non-corporeal. Not unlike a Patronus. One of the Black Adder's Snake Familiars. They were one of his favorite devices to use, as they made analyzing any given situation a snap. They could still set off wards, of course, but it was often just a quick blip, something that went unnoticed by many occupants, at least thus far.

The Snake looked up at its master, awaiting instructions, until Draco pointed at the door, and it promptly slithered off right through it, leaving him to bide his time while it conducted its research.

Pucey had said there was apparently an illegal potions ring operating out of the back of this shop ― creating recreational powders and elixirs to be sold in alleys and around nightclubs. Draco had seen them when he'd been out and about during his own phase. Had seen how easily they could ruin a person's life. He'd never touched the stuff himself.

The Snake returned with an unmistakable confirmation of the rumors. It glided back through the doorway and up to his feet, where its form morphed into a ball that floated in front of his face. In it, he could see a playback of the room just inside the wall behind him. Three men sat at a long table in nothing but their underwear, piles of different colored powders stacked around them, which they were busy measuring out and packaging up with wrapping paper into neat, palm-sized bricks. Next, he could see the adjacent laboratory, where another man wearing a protective mask was brewing a fresh batch. Draco hated to say it, but he was more than a little disappointed.

He cared little for the wards that went off when he stormed the premises ― the moment he'd forced the door open, he'd reached into his pocket again for another long-time favorite. Before the men could even get to their feet, they found themselves engulfed in Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder. The room turned black from wall to wall, extinguishing all candles and blocking any light that might've filtered in from the window, creating an environment that only a bat would be able to find its way in. Or, in Draco's case, an adder. With a muttered spell, he activated the hidden Charm in the lenses of his mask, and suddenly he could make out the outlines of every component of the room, including the three associates, where they stood, hacking, beside their overturned chairs. Apparently the Muggles called such a thing 'night vision'. He'd been absolutely astonished to discover just how much of their own inventions had been helpful to him.

"What the fuck?"

"Who blew the candles out?"

"Can't see a bloody thing!"

He took down the first bloke with a simple _Stupefy_. The second had already gotten to his wand and was aiming for the general direction of the shouted spell, and so he had to be Disarmed before Draco pinned him to the wall with a quickly-conjured net. The third managed to fire off a couple jinxes, shooting them randomly through the dark. Draco bobbed and weaved, ducking and dodging each sizzle of sparks that flew by, till he finally came to the table, which he kicked over with a well-timed thrust of his boot. It caught the man right in the gut, sending him spiralling backwards into a row of cabinets, shaking them and shattering the glass in the one he landed against. He was still sputtering and cursing under the table when Draco approached to shoot another Stunning Spell at his head.

"Gavin? Hello? What in the bloody hell is going on out there?"

Last stop was the brewer. Draco was thankful for the breathing apparatus he'd equipped his mask with on the inside. The fumes in that room were noxious, even without the Powder. The man could be seen stumbling around, coughing his lungs out, no wand in sight. This should be easy.

" _Stupefy_!"

"Shit!"

And it seemed perhaps he'd spoken too soon. Using a level of skill that someone in his current position shouldn't have had, the man actually managed to leap out of the way of the oncoming spell. With a roar, he then turned on the Black Adder― or, at least, a good guess of where he was ― and lunged. Draco leaned away from the flailing fists, ducking under one shot to come up and land a punch of his own in the man's side. He howled with pain, lurching backwards and groping for the workbench.

The next thing Draco knew, the man had gotten his hands on a potions beaker. He swung his arm down on the table, followed by the sound of glass breaking, then lunged again, his hand flinging forward with a sharp point, ready to slice him open. The edge caught a bit of his cape on the first pass, tearing a long strip down the side. Draco danced around him as the man continued to swipe over and over through the darkness, just barely missing his stomach on another go, until he was able to raise his wand once more.

" _Viperae morsum_!"

The final of his favorite tricks shot out the end of his wand and directly into the man's face ― a highly toxic venom, modelled after a viper's own. The beaker shattered further as it fell from his hand and smashed on the floor. He was screaming ― a bloodcurdling, bone-fracturing scream that bounced off every wall ― as the poison seared into his eyes. Draco couldn't see it in his current vision, but he knew the man's skin would be purpling, swelling, breaking apart. He was curling into a ball on the floor, now, hands clawing frantically at its face.

" _Stupefy_!"

The man went still, slumping into a heap on the ground. Draco waited for the Powder to dissipate, before switching off his 'night vision' and surveying the damage. Despite the couple hiccups there, these four had gone down fairly easily. Well, that was to be expected of their lot ― they certainly weren't any Death Eaters, let alone duelists.

Having bound and gagged the brewer, Draco dragged him outside. His wand scribbled a hasty note on a scrap of parchment from his pocket ― so that the Aurors couldn't decipher his handwriting ― indicating that one should come to search Slug & Jiggers for the rest. _Wingardium Leviosa_ lifted him into the air, floating along behind Draco as he took to the rooftops, headed for the Ministry's front door.

" _Morscaptis_."

With a smirk, Draco shot one last spell behind him, sending sparks up to the sky where a familiar ― and yet wholly _unfamiliar_ ― green skull took shape, informing all who laid eyes on it that the Black Adder had been there.

☠               ☠               ☠

Wow, they actually let her print that picture. Imagine that.

Draco stood at the newstand in Diagon Alley on a windy late November morning, flipping through _Witch Weekly's_ feature article from their most recent issue. He'd almost lost his cool the moment he'd opened it to that first section and saw it was a two-page spread of his very own sigil. A photograph from when he'd raided Slug  & Jiggers last week, shining in the sky in all its emerald glory. The article turned out to be a doozy as well; another four pages detailing every single time he'd stood up the Aurors' office thus far, and blaming prejudice for why they hadn't realized there'd been a ring in Diagon Alley on their own. Of course, Pansy had done an equally superb ― if not better ― write-up on it the morning after the incident, but he had to give credit where credit was due. This woman didn't pull any punches.

He dropped a handful of Sickles on the counter, slipped the magazine under his arm, and headed off around the corner. He'd come there that morning for the same reason he came at least three times a week, these days: to stop in for a drink at Le Fay's.

The cafe had opened up next to Quality Quidditch Supplies a few months back, and their business had been booming ever since. They specialized in coffee of all sizes and sweetness levels, but they also had a wide selection of teas, and Draco had become rather attached to their cranberry orange scones. It was rare to ever find the line shorter than by the door ― and such was the case that morning as well, as Draco soon found out after stepping inside. He'd never been one to be put off by it, of course, seeing as he rarely ever had daytime obligations to hurry off to, unlike most. He filed in behind the rest.

It was after a couple minutes of waiting that the couple in front of him made a derisive comment about the state of the queue and left in a huff. Just as well; only got him another step closer. He slid forward, glancing behind as another person stepped into line after him. It was only when he turned around again that he finally realized who he was now standing behind.

No one could miss that garish red hair. Ron Weasley stuck out like a sore thumb ― tall as hell, ginger, freckled and pale, and now he was sturdy, muscular from his Auror regimen. Draco swallowed, his tongue running across his lips of its own accord. There was absolutely no reason for Weasley, of all people, to make that uniform look as good as he did. It should've been illegal. Draco should've been flogged for even thinking it. Then again, he'd thought as much for years, and it hadn't stopped him yet. It was probably at least half the reason why he'd harped on him so much at Hogwarts.

"I tell you, this bloody Black Adder case is gonna be the death of me."

Weasley was speaking low, clearly not intending for anyone other than the person standing beside him to hear him ― but he hadn't bothered to notice Draco's already piqued interest. He would've been listening even if his ears hadn't perked up at the sound of his alter ego's name. He'd been too busy staring at Weasley's arse not to. It hadn't even occurred to him that Longbottom was with him until he spoke himself.

"I know," he droned, sounding equally miserable.

"Did you see the one he left us the other day? In his fucking skivs, he was!"

"And raving like a madman, yeah. I think he's been dipping into his own stash."

"Probably."

"Do you know if they were able to get anything out of him?"

"Nah. Same as the others; a man in tights swooped in and knocked them all out before they knew what hit 'em. Wish we'd been able to get something out of Rowle ― at least he _spoke_ to him, even if it wasn't much."

"Damn. I don't know what they expect us to do about all this."

Weasley hummed derisively. "'Mione says if it were up to Shacklebolt, we'd be out there every bloody night waiting for his arse. I told her he hasn't shown any distinctive pattern yet, and the nights we've tried staking out so far have yielded nothing."

"That's the thing. He doesn't do it every night, and not even at the same time of night when he does. And we couldn't possibly know who he's after, or which direction he'd be coming from. I mean, we _could_ wait by the steps every sodding night until he gets there, but then what? He could be teleporting them in somehow, dropping them out of the sky, I don't know ―"

"That's what _I'm_ saying! So what are we supposed to do ― do it anyway just on the off chance he might eventually show up? And that he _might_ be catchable when he does? We can't be expected to work twenty-four seven."

Draco couldn't have been more pleased with himself in that moment if he'd tried. Who could've guessed he'd have ended up in line behind those two just then? Of course, he'd known for going on two months that Weasley was the lead on his case, ever since Pansy had told him as much. But to finally get to hear the _anguish_ in his voice? Priceless. Draco saw Weasley around from time to time, as he did anyone from his school days, but the redhead hadn't managed to slip up yet. This had been a treat _long_ overdue. If he couldn't console himself with the knowledge that he wasn't hung up on Weasley's arse, then he could at least rest easier knowing the Black Adder was making his life a living hell.

"I'm not all that inclined to jail a bloke for doing what's technically right, anyway."

Weasley sighed, a long exhale through his nostrils. "I know what you mean."

Then another emotion joined in the mix. He almost hadn't heard what either of them had said, they'd spoken so quietly, but he did. And it made his heart do a happy little flip.

The queue shifted forward a few steps, and Weasley finally glanced around, his eyes lighting upon the blond standing behind them. Draco tried his best to wipe the smirk from his face as they stared each other down, tension as old as time crackling on the air between them. Some things never changed.

"Ferret."

"Weasel."

"Taken up eavesdropping now, have you? Always knew you were a sneaky little shit."

Barely even bristling, Draco took his cue from there without missing a beat. "I'm surprised you can afford to buy your own coffee. Or is this on Potter's coin?"

"I'm surprised they even let your kind in here. Thought they'd be checking forearms at the door."

"It must be awful for you, having two out of the three Golden Children leading such promising careers, and you ― left behind again? I hear Granger's taken over as Head of your department, Potter's Head of the office, and you're still just an Auror. How pitiful."

"At least I have a job. I doubt anyone would hire you to scrub their toilets. What's poor wittle Malfoy going to do once all his money's dried up? Run crying to Mummy and Daddy again?"

"Blood traitor."

"Better than Death Eater scum."

They fell silent there, the dust settling around them.

Weasley was the first to crack. Slowly, a grin crept across his face ― starting in his eyes, then inching down to turn up each corner of his mouth. Draco tried his best to resist, crossing his arms over his chest and turning away, but even he couldn't help himself. They were both laughing before long.

This sort of thing always caught him by surprise, no matter how often he saw them. It had started with Potter. Draco still remembered exactly what it had felt like, looking up from his seat behind the defence's table to see him taking the stand ― and not to slander him, but to show his support. They'd got on better than he ever could've imagined since then. They're weren't _mates_ , of course. You wouldn't find them at the pub together on a Friday night. But they were comfortable exchanging pleasantries whenever they crossed paths. Potter had even hugged him, once ― now _that_ had been surreal. Granger had been the next to fall. It had actually been while she was out with Potter. Draco never knew if he'd said anything to her to initialize it, but she'd walked right up to him that day and said hello, even before Potter had gotten to him himself.

Weasley had been a tougher case. Somehow, Draco had always known he would be. For years, he'd hung back whenever Potter and Granger had come up to talk to him, giving no acknowledgement aside from a nod of his head and a tight-lipped expression. That all changed one day, however, when they ran into each other alone ― at this very cafe, in fact. It was their opening weekend, and the queue had been atrocious. They'd gotten stuck together towards the back. The first minute or so had been spent in tense silence. Until, suddenly, Weasley had turned to him and actually opened his mouth. Initially, Draco had expected an insult. That was how their relationship had always been before, after all. But no ― instead, Weasley had sighed, chuckled to himself, and said, ' _Fuck it. How the hell are you doing, Malfoy?_ ' The rest was, as they say, history. They'd seen each other there at least a couple times a week since, and had taken to reenacting their past grievances for a laugh. Oftentimes, Draco would find himself waiting with bated breath, wondering if _this_ was the time Weasley wouldn't laugh. Others, he wondered if Weasley knew how he looked at him ― how he'd _been_ looking at him for years, and why he'd been so hostile in their youth ― and if he would still keep talking to Draco if he did.

"You two are ridiculous," Longbottom muttered with a chuckle of his own, before stepping forward to place his order. They both still grinned, ignoring him.

"Don't you have a break room you could be getting your coffee from?"

"Not if I want it to actually taste like something. Don't you have a bunch of little elves to make your coffee for you? I didn't even know you knew how to order for yourself."

Draco smiled sweetly as he flashed him a finger. Weasley snorted.

"Cute, Malfoy."

Longbottom moved to the other end of the counter to wait for his beverage, and Weasley took his place.

"A medium of your Unforgivable Dark Roast to go, please. Black." He left the Galleon on the counter as the associate hurried off to fill him a cup.

"Sorry this 'Black Adder' fellow has been such a bother."

He didn't even know what made him say it. The words had left Draco's mouth before he'd had the chance to think them through ― an old habit that still proved difficult to break. All he did know was that he really wasn't that sorry at all. Weasley hummed, looking unhappy enough for the both of them, and that only seemed to bring him more joy. Merlin, what was wrong with him? He spent nearly every day since he'd hit puberty checking the man out, was even prone to having the occasional friendly chat with him now ― and he _still_ got his jollies from being the thorn in his side?

"You wouldn't know anything about it, would you?"

Draco momentarily lost his breath. He glanced up, seeing Weasley staring back, his eyes one shade of blue darker.

"I just mean ― you're friends with Parkinson. She's taking all these pictures of the bloke, writing articles about him. Seems to know him well. She said anything to you?"

A pause. And then Draco shook his head, smiling a hopefully-convincing smile. "No. Nothing at all."

Weasley looked disappointed, and something else ― like he almost didn't believe him. Just for a brief second. Then he turned to accept his takeaway cup from the barista and headed off with a nod of his head. "Till next time."

"Yeah. See you."

Draco watched him as he rejoined Longbottom, before they exited to the bustling street outside. What _was_ it with him? How had he always been able to make Draco feel equal parts annoyed and seduced ― and as if he'd just been seen right through to his bones?

"Sir. Sir? What can I get you?"

"Right. Sorry."

Draco placed his order, still lost in thought. Alright, forget Weasley. Forget his fine arse and his infuriatingly perceptive wit. The important thing today was that he'd learned of the Aurors' plans to stakeout his drop point ― and Merlin help them, he was prepared to take _full_ advantage.

☠               ☠               ☠

Draco couldn't believe his luck.

He had to thank Weasley for his poor decision making in spouting department secrets in the coffee shop that first day. Ever since he'd heard that initial inkling of their stake-outs, Draco had sent a Familiar to scout the area each night to make sure the coast was clear before he moved on to his task. For weeks, now, he'd stopped by that shop as often as possible, always hoping to catch Weasley and his partner there as well and hear more about their plans for catching the Black Adder. It hadn't happened often after that, but every once in awhile Weasley would slip up, and Draco would catch something he wasn't supposed to. He hadn't encountered anyone from the Aurors' office prior to this evening ― but he'd been counting on them expecting a good show from the Black Adder on the holiday, and he was positively delighted to discover he'd been right.

When the Familiar had come back that night with a report of several Aurors in the vicinity, Draco had had to suppress a whoop of victory. True to form, he _had_ been saving a good catch for just this occasion ― better yet that Weasley was going to be a first-hand witness to it. In the past week, Draco had tracked down three more big names in the flying carpet ring Rowle had been involved in, and he had happened to know exactly where they were going to be tonight. Poor blokes, working on Christmas Eve. He didn't feel too terribly sorry for them, however, as they weren't all that bright to begin with ― a little Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, some ropes and gags, and they were as good as his.

Now he stood in an alley in Diagon, the three oafs pressed back-to-back, with their hands tied together behind them in the center. The courtyard down the block, outside the Ministry's entrance, was surrounded. He knew there would be no possible way for him to deposit his captures without getting rounded up himself; that was why he was happy to say he had a brand new trick up his sleeve.

Blaise Zabini was a bloody genius. Really, Draco could've kissed him for this one ― and he'd told him as much when the man had first presented it to him.

More so after the war than ever before, Diagon Alley and its surrounding areas were heavily guarded against the use of magical transportation. No portkeys in or out, unless expressly permitted and provided by the Ministry for official business. No Apparition except at a designated point. Not even the Knight Bus could roll through these streets, and they were supposedly able to go anywhere.

But a _bloody genius_ his dear, dear friend absolutely was ― because in his hand, Draco now held a gold Coin, just a hair bigger than a Galleon. On both sides, his handsome visage smiled slyly up at whoever laid eyes on it. Or at least that of the mask he wore. However, this trinket was more than just a sight to behold. It was a loophole. Wasn't much their wards and enchantments could do against a spell they'd never heard of ― especially if he didn't intend to move in nor out of the space...but _across it_.

With a flourish, Draco withdrew a scrap of parchment from one of the hidden pockets in his cloak. He'd written the note before he'd left home that night on the audacious hope that he'd find a way to make good use out of it. Lucky for him, both Weasley and these unfortunate men had happened to be in the right places at the right times.

Far too pleased with himself, he was grinning from ear to ear beneath his mask as he hummed a Sticking Charm and affixed the note to one of the goon's foreheads, where the bold, black script read plain for all to see: _Happy Christmas, Auror Weasley. Love always, The Black Adder_.

Satisfied with his work, Draco tucked the Adder Coins into each of the mens' pockets, patting the spot on the last one in mock comfort.

"Alright, ready for your big debut?"

Another tried to shout something through his gag ― it could've been a 'no' or a 'please don't' for all Draco really cared ― before Draco uttered the magic word and sent them on their way, withdrawing his hands just in time.

His gifts disappeared with a whoosh, leaving a shimmering dust in their wake that floated serenely towards the ground before fading away altogether. Draco knew he wouldn't to be able to hear if they'd arrived safely on the other side, but he didn't need to: the ungodly cry of rage in that oh-so-familiar tone came moments later, like music to his ears. Smothering the urge to laugh, he scaled the nearest wall and headed for the Apparition point. As he bounded over old shingles through the freshly fallen snow, he could hear the redhead swearing colorfully in the distance, and knew he must be lamenting the day he'd ever even _heard_ of the Black Adder.


	4. Chapter 4

Draco found himself more and more amazed, year after year, at how incredibly boring Ministry functions could be.

He used to think they were rather stylish affairs, as a child. He would watch with rapt fascination as his mother donned her best jewelry and a brand new gown, the house-elves laying out one of his father's most elegant robes. They would carry themselves with all the magnificence of royalty as they floated out the door, bound for the Ministry's charity auction, or annual ball, or holiday party. Had anyone tried to tell him, back then, that they were all about networking, not having the grand shindig he'd always pictured ― and that his parents were dressing up, not to have _fun_ , but to impress those who they wished to have influence over ― he wouldn't have believed them for a second.

Of course, those days were long gone, and Malfoys were no longer so easily afforded an invitation to such events. They now ranked amongst the families whose members anyone would be remiss to count themselves acquainted with, especially when it came to the Ministry. That Draco had managed to snag himself a coveted spot on the guest list the past few years had been all Pansy's doing. She would've been thrown down into that pit of societal despair along with the rest of them, had she not become one of the journalist elite. The Ministry feared more false reports akin to those published by her predecessors prior to the war ― including but not limited to one Rita Skeeter ― and thought they might do well to have a better relationship with the press than they'd had before. Which was why he'd been treated to the abysmally tedious privilege of accompanying her to a number of special occasions throughout the year.

Except for the ones honoring the anniversary of the Battle in May. No, he didn't much like the idea of showing up to them in particular.

Sometimes Pansy would bring him, or Blaise, or more often both, as was the case this evening. Theo as well, the times that one or either of them weren't available. Tonight, Draco was trying to make the best of it, although he hadn't exactly been thrilled. He'd done his best to come up with excuses, but her and Blaise had seen right through every single one, the crafty little snakes they were. He should've known better than to try to fool two people who had as thorough a working knowledge of his nightly escapades as them. Truth was, he'd had nothing at all lined up for New Years Eve, and thus he'd found no use in resisting. Well, that, and Pansy had mentioned teasingly over her glass of port at their Christmas dinner that she thought he would've loved nothing more these days than to gloat in a room full of Aurors and their superiors, and Salazar knew she was right.

Gloat he definitely did, as he surveilled the crowd from his intentional placement against the wall. The Aurors present had looked decidedly downtrodden at the beginning of the evening, and he didn't blame them ― it had only been a week prior that he'd shown them all up, right in front of their faces. However, alcohol and decent food had done much to lift their spirits in the hours since. Even Weasley, with his five-o'clock shadow and his dark-rimmed eyes, was looking happier than he had seen him recently.

He scanned the room for that mop of ginger hair, his gaze lighting upon him just as Weasley looked his way.

Draco had been observing the redhead for the better part of the night. Whether or not he'd realized it thus far, he had yet to see. But now Weasley stared back for a brief moment before nodding his head in acknowledgement. Potter and Weasley's sister both took notice and turned to look at him as well. Draco averted his eyes before he could catch their reactions.

Blaise was looking at him now, too, he could feel it, and he hated to give him the satisfaction, but he couldn't help it. He looked back. And for fuck's sake, Blaise was smirking in that perfectly pompous way of his ― that perfectly _knowing_ way of his ― and Draco could already feel his cheeks burning.

He scoffed, interjecting before Blaise could say what they both knew he was thinking. "You're almost as bad as Pansy."

"Stop providing us with such excellent material, and we won't have anything to say."

Draco didn't like to think he was that obvious. His friends, however, weren't inclined to allow him to bask in that delusion. It had been getting worse, ever since he'd decided to frequent that cafe more than was entirely necessary. Of course, the main reason was to hopefully catch bits and pieces of Auror intel from Weasley and Longbottom, but he knew he was fooling himself to think that was all it was about. He and Weasley had gotten to talking over the months, whenever they saw each other there, and it hadn't all been jibes like in their youth. Sometimes ― and Draco desperately wanted to despise the very idea of it, but ― sometimes, it was almost as if they were becoming friends. It seemed ludicrous to him, but he couldn't deny the uncanny feeling he'd been getting whenever Weasley laughed at one of his jokes, or asked a casual question about his life. Truth was, he'd been going to that shop for a long time prior to Weasley ever having said something about the Black Adder ― and it hadn't always been for the coffee.

The large, ornate clock that had been set up next to the bandstand now read five till. A much-needed diversion. Draco excused himself to collect champagne for the toast, beelining for the bar. He ordered two glasses, resting an elbow on the counter as he waited.

It was strange, being here. He hadn't wanted to say as much to Pansy and Blaise ― but it was. The Black Adder, mingling with the very same Ministry staff he'd been trouncing on a weekly basis, and them none the wiser. He felt oddly exposed, and yet deceptive, in a way he hadn't in many years.

He almost jumped when he heard someone come up next to him, effectively breaking his reverie. Assuming it was one of his dates, he turned with a ready-made smirk fixed flawlessly over his brimming anxiety ― to find a freckled face grinning right back.

"Weasley. Enjoying yourself this evening?"

"As much as I can, under the circumstances." He rolled his eyes, then shifted them to the bartender as he passed by, delivering Draco's beverages. "You're usually drinking coffee when I see you these days."

"Yes, and you're usually wearing something I assume you'd just rolled out of bed in." Neither of them seemed able to determine if that was a barb at Weasley's normal work attire, or if it was a compliment to the suit he was wearing now. It _was_ a nice suit, either way. Tailored well, and pressed clean, it showed off his broad shoulders, the bulge of his biceps, the length of his legs. Draco gave a small cough and added, "You know, I do partake in other things, much as that might shock you."

"Oh, I know. I remember that party in fifth year. Heard they found you passed out the next morning, curled around a toilet."

Draco hated the way his chest tightened at those words. For a moment, he pretended to take a vested interest in a tiny spot marring the otherwise immaculate marble floor beneath their feet, and prayed the heat in his neck would go unnoticed. He didn't think he could ever quite get used to Weasley taking the piss with him in a way that _wasn't_ meant to hurt. It was something the redhead was known for by most others, but Draco hadn't had the pleasure until very recently. And that Weasley had deemed it necessary to remember _anything_ about the Draco from their school days other than the fact that he'd been a horrible prick to everyone there would never cease to both confuse and amaze him.

"I'd say I'm much better at holding my own now."

"Like tonight?"

Draco looked up to see Weasley grinning again, an eyebrow raised, as he nodded to the two full champagne flutes that had been set in front of him. He snorted and suppressed a smile.

"I'll have you know one of these is for a friend ― but yes, _especially_ tonight."

Weasley chuckled ― a warm sound in the back of his throat. "I'd have to agree with you on that one."

Draco smirked. "And here I'd thought all Aurors took great pride in Ministry solidarity."

"Not when it involves wasting a whole night every other month pretending I give a stuff about some new policy that's been passed, or the donation revenue from Quidditch for Underprivileged Youth's most recent bake sale, or whatever else."

"And what is it we're celebrating tonight? I'll be honest, I haven't exactly been paying attention."

"Our god given right to get pissed?" He shrugged and laughed, and Draco couldn't help but join in. "I don't really think these New Year's ones are about much else."

There was a small commotion towards the center of the room, as everyone began to gather for the countdown. Draco moved to pick up his drinks, mouth opening on what would've been a witty exit line ― but then he saw Weasley's expression falter, and he stopped.

The past two years of training to become the fighter he was now had taught him well how to quickly assess a situation. Initially, he'd thought Weasley was there to gather champagne for his friends, as Draco had been. Now that he really looked, he realized he couldn't have been doing it for Potter's benefit, as he could see him across the hall, already wrinkling his nose after a sip from his own glass, much to his wife's amusement. Weasley clearly no longer had any romantic obligations to Granger, as evidenced by the gorgeous European wizard that had been by her side the entire evening ― in whose arms she now relaxed, smiling as they clinked their glasses and pecked each other on the lips. His Auror partner had also managed to retrieve his own, and could even be seen handing a second to Pansy as they struck up a conversation in a far corner of the room. Weasley's fingers were toying with the stem of a half empty flute set on the counter next to him, one he must've snagged from a roving waiter on his way over. So he had come here for ― what? To talk to Draco? He felt a little flutter in the pit of his stomach at the thought.

"Heard you donated to the War Relief Fund."

Draco's eyes snapped back to Weasley's face, his heart skipping a beat. He searched for any signs of malice, and found none. And that confused him more than the words themselves.

Potter and several others had set up a fund shortly after the war, to raise money for the families that had suffered. It wasn't until recently that Draco had finally gotten over his cowardice and decided to send them something. It had not been a small sum, by any means. However, he'd told Potter in the private letter he'd sent along with the promise of payment that he would prefer if his name wasn't included on any of the listings. He'd seemed graciously understanding of the request. Draco hadn't been looking for notoriety, or praise. He hadn't wanted to see the headlines that would come after such news got out. At the _Prophet_ , he would've had Pansy looking out for him for the most part, but she didn't have control over it all ― and any other newspapers would've jumped at the chance to get one over on them, to print the story about how the infamous Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater, was now giving to those same people for which his kind had caused so much pain. He'd wanted to feel like he was doing something for the survivors directly, not just putting the hands at which they'd suffered behind bars. They needed peace in their lives, he'd told Blaise when he'd done it ― not to know where the money was coming from.

"I'd thought that was to be kept anonymous."

"Yeah, well, when your best mate's the Chapter President, and the benefactor is..." Weasley chewed his lip, his eyes clouding. And then he said simply, "Thank you."

Nothing could've shocked Draco more. There was no sarcasm in those words, no derision. It was just a thank you ― a sincere, and _grateful_ , thank you. Draco didn't know how to respond to that. He swallowed.

"The least I could do."

"TEN!"

Their eyes remained locked, even as the chanting began.

"NINE!"

Weasley was looking at him in a way Draco had never seen before.

"EIGHT!"

It made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

"SEVEN!"

He wanted to say something more, but couldn't convince his mouth to behave.

"SIX!"

Why did this feel so normal? Talking with him, as if they'd been on good terms for years.

"FIVE!"

Why would he thank him?

"FOUR!"

Why would he come over here just to talk to him?

"THREE!"

And why did Draco feel ―

"TWO!"

Why did he feel like he wanted to ―

"ONE! HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

Something happened in that moment that Draco couldn't quite explain. They were standing closer together now ― much closer, he thought, than they had been before. There was joy bursting all around them. People cheering, hugging, kissing. One of Weasley's arms hung at his side, almost near enough to touch Draco's hip, and he suddenly wanted him to. He licked his lips, watching as Weasley did the same, his eyes tracing Draco's bottom lip as he swiped his tongue across his own before pulling it between his teeth once again.

Nothing had ever brought Draco more pleasure than getting under this particular man's skin. Not for the first time, he was contemplating getting under something else entirely.

For a fleeting minute, he considered…

Then he heard a sharp laugh over the din, and it shattered the spell, brought him back down to earth. He turned away, his hands shaking as he picked up the champagne. He drained first one glass, and then the other, setting them back on the counter a little harder than intended. Weasley was still smiling at him when he turned back, but there was an uneasiness now that hadn't been there before. Draco looked away, caught sight of Pansy ― still with Longbottom, but looking uncomfortable, her brow furrowed as she stepped away ― and said:

"Seems my friend might need some assistance in getting out of your partner's clutches, so if you'll excuse me."

He didn't have to look back to know that Weasley was watching him. Blaise came up beside him as he walked, something mocking on the tip of his tongue, Draco could tell by his expression, but he suppressed it once he saw Draco's face. With a quick lie to Longbottom, they managed to tear Pansy away, and then they were out in the Atrium and Flooing home.

☠               ☠               ☠

"So, what did Longbottom want?"

Draco stood at the mini bar in his parlour, pouring three tumblers of scotch ― a particularly healthy dose in the one meant for him. The Ministry had permitted their Floos open to those of their guests for the evening (provided they still checked their wands in for scanning once they arrived), and Draco had sent himself straight home without a second thought, Pansy and Blaise following right behind him. Good thing, too, because he didn't know that his stomach would've been up to Apparating; he was too tightly wound. All he could think about was that look in Weasley's eyes when he'd thanked him, the way his tongue had darted across his lips. It was driving him mad. He loosened his tie, sipped his scotch, hoping it would comfort him. It didn't.

"Same thing Weasley's been wanting ― to find out how much of a connection to the Black Adder I really have. I was just in the middle of telling him to piss off when you two showed up."

Pansy smiled as he crossed to pass them each their drinks. She'd kicked off her heels and was relaxing in a chair by the fire. Blaise ― who Draco was fairly sure had never 'let his hair down' a day in his life ― was still prim and proper, standing beside her.

"You don't have to subject yourself to the wrath of the Aurors just for me."

She rolled her eyes with a flick of her hand. "It's all rubbish, anyway, and they know it. I'm not the only reporter with pictures of you, writing articles about you every other day. What's-her-name from _Witch Weekly_ did an entire exposé back in November, didn't she? Why aren't they asking her? Besides, if they really had anything on me, they'd be taking me in for interrogation, and that would be that."

Draco took another sip, turning thoughtful. He supposed that was true. No one could really fault them for asking questions ― it was their _job_ , after all. And Pansy was a piece of work in her own right; she could handle herself. If she wasn't upset about it, then he could learn to live with it as well.

"I think the real question we should be asking here is: what happened between you and Weasley tonight?"

Draco's attention shifted to Blaise as he suddenly spoke, willing down a resurgence in his blush.

"Nothing."

"Didn't look like nothing."

He chewed his lip, trying to maintain eye contact. "Same old. He was bitching about when I showed them up on Christmas Eve," he lied, hating that he knew Blaise could see right through him. The look in his friend's dark eyes was a dead giveaway, but he graciously chose not to argue when Pansy provided an out.

"Oh, that reminds me." She shifted forward in her seat, her expression kind and understanding, saying much and very little at the same time. "You two were going to show me that Adder Coin you invented. We forgot last time."

Draco silently thanked her for the reprieve. For once, she wasn't the one to insist on harping on about it.

They made their way down to the dungeon, drinks in hand. Pansy had only seen the place a handful of times, and Draco enjoyed watching the fascination that came over her whenever she reached the bottom of the stairs. She looked around her tonight, taking it all in, from the scattered tools on the workbench, to the fresh batch of dittany boiling on the other side.

She'd always said the less she really knew, the better. Lately, however, she'd begun to take an interest. At first, he'd thought it was purely out of curiosity. It didn't take long for him to see it was actually concern ― concern for his wellbeing, for what sorts of things he was getting himself into every night. Blaise felt the same. Draco knew that, even if neither of them would ever say it.

"Who did you convince to do all this work around here, anyway?"

"I'm not at liberty to say." He smirked, watching as her eyes scanned the ingredients alphabetised on the shelves above. "You do know you can't write about any of this?"

"Wouldn't dream of it, darling. Although, just think of how many papers we'd sell _then_."

With one of her conspiratorial winks, she moved on, crossing the room to pick out one of the Coins from their jar on the table. She turned it over in her hand, smiling to herself at the etching of him found on both sides. Draco chuckled, intending to follow her ― he stopped when he noticed his other friend looking at him.

Blaise was not one to putter about, wallowing in emotions and insecurities, like the rest of them. Draco had joked on more than one occasion that he was the most snake-like out of all the Slytherins ― to his great surprise, the darker man continued to find hilarity in the concept time and time again. Yet, he was not devoid of feelings completely, and there were rare and fleeting moments when Draco was reminded of that. This was one of them.

He raised an eyebrow in lieu of asking. Blaise sighed, then said evenly:

"How long do you think you can keep this up, exactly?"

Draco was taken aback. He could see the severity in Blaise's expression, and it made his heart rate spike for a brief moment. Pansy was less interested in her perusal of the Coins, now, instead staring at him from across the room, her brows furrowed. He didn't know how to respond to that. They'd asked him about his motives before, and his methods ― but never had either of them ever alluded to the day it would all end.

"I'm not saying you shouldn't be, I'm simply making an observation. The Aurors are doing their damnedest to track you down, questioning the reporters that write about you. Those of us that _know_ who the Black Adder really is will do everything in our power to keep your secret, of course, but things happen. Are you really willing to go to jail over all this?"

Draco worried the tumbler in his hand before deciding to drain the lot. He swallowed hard, pursing his lips.

"Do you think they would? Put me in Azkaban for it?"

"I think their superiors want them to ― in order to set an example."

Although he, too, could guess how true that statement really was, he didn't like to imagine it. A world where doing the right and just thing ― where every step was accounted for, save a piece of paper from the Ministry authorizing him to do it ― could land him behind bars. It was unthinkable. And yet, it was the age they lived in. There'd been a time when witches and wizards could stand to defend themselves against any perceived threat. That time had come and gone, washed away with Voldemort's last shred of power. Now the Aurors feared letting themselves slip again, letting their control waver, so much so that they couldn't allow even one individual to handle business on their own. Of course, Draco knew it was about more than that in his case ― it was about how he insisted on embarrassing them about it. But really, he thought it served them right. They'd had years now to put everything to rights, and they'd barely done a thing about it. If they couldn't, then he would, and he'd make damn sure the public knew _something_ was being done. There were no politics or regulations holding him back.

And yet...He couldn't help but feel at least a small sense of panic over what Blaise had said. He was right. How long _could_ he keep doing this? To be honest, he'd never considered it. He'd been going out nearly every night on the sheer joy at the knowledge that he was finally doing something _good_ ― he'd never stopped for even a minute to ask himself it was good for _him_. Now he was, and it terrified him. Regardless of whether or not the Aurors ever caught him, the work was wearing on him even now. How much time did he really have? Another year? Two? Was he willing to get put away for it? Was he willing to sacrifice his life for it?

He thought of the tattoo still branded there on his arm, and knew it wasn't a choice.

"I'll be fine," he finally said, and this time he couldn't meet Blaise's eyes. "I don't think they're anywhere near finding me out, and even if they were…I'm not going to stop. As long as there's more work to be done, they'll have to drag me kicking and screaming off those streets. So let them keep asking their questions. They can't bully me out of it."

Blaise appeared skeptical, but he seemed satisfied with that answer. Pansy was still looking at him with that worried line between her brows, but she was smiling a little now, looking proud. Draco's thumb traced the side of his glass, wishing for more scotch, and hoping that, at some point, he'd be able to convince himself of all that just as easily.


	5. Chapter 5

It should've been a night like any other.

Draco had eaten a light dinner at the kitchen table with Noorey, following it up with a quick warm-up in the rec room. He'd donned his jumpsuit, his boots, his mask, tying his cloak and pulling on his gloves as he crossed the front yard. At the point where the hedges met the gate, he'd Disapparated, pocket laden with a Snake and plenty of Darkness Powder. As soon as the streets of Diagon Alley had materialized in his view, he'd flipped an Adder Coin and blinked his way to Knockturn.

For several years, the furthest end of this seedy district had been left mostly abandoned ― at least to the public eye. To those in the know, however, it was home to many of the meetings for various criminal organizations. Its buildings were terribly decrepit, of course, and thus easy to break into. Its streets were rarely occupied, even during the day, so it didn't take much to sneak about around there.

Tonight, he was there on another tip from Pucey. A conference was supposedly taking place in one of the crumbling shops there ― he thought it might've been the old House-Elf Leasing Agency. A slightly larger building than those surrounding it, its roof still pretty much intact, and random assortments of furniture still remaining.

His Familiar returned with a fairly standard report: eight occupants; seven in the main room, the last in a small office down the hall. Tad more than Draco was accustomed to controlling at the same time, but toss a little Darkness Powder in there, and he could manage. No wards to speak of, but he wasn't shocked by that ― he doubted they'd even thought to expect anyone.

The back door opened into the hall outside the office. He would have to pass right by it in order to enter the main room. Since the Snake hadn't told him for sure just who was inside, he decided on the safest route, climbing up to scurry along the ceiling, his cape pulled around to dangle out of the way, down his front.

He hadn't wanted to believe the rumors Pucey had been feeding him about this lot. Such a thing just wasn't possible in this day and age, was it? He told himself an uncertain no, and carried on.

The door to the office was thankfully closed. He crept past as quietly as possible, the archway leading into the main room just a few feet ahead. Right. Powder ― stun, stun, stun ― wrap up a couple, and off to the Ministry. Standard procedure. He whispered the spell to flick on his night vision, grabbed a pinch of Powder from the jar in his pocket, and threw it around the corner ―

Alarms like the wailing of a banshee instantly went off from every corner of the room.

Draco jumped so hard that he sprang off the ceiling completely, landing with a yelp on the hard concrete floor. Stars danced in front of his eyes, his head swimming. Wards. The Familiar hadn't told him about any wards. Perhaps it had only checked the corridor? They must've been using something its technology was too primitive to detect. Bloody hell. He hadn't counted on them being that smart.

He could hear them all hacking and shouting and stumbling about in the next room. When he could finally open his eyes properly again, he almost wished he hadn't ― the alarms they were using were flashing multicolored lights through the otherwise inky blackness, nearly blinding him, and he couldn't have uttered the incantation to turn his goggles back to normal fast enough. Vision set to rights, he tried to push himself to his feet, grateful that at least the Powder had worked, if nothing else, and quickly scrawling out a Plan B in the back of his mind ―

When, suddenly, he found himself against the wall.

" _Fuck_ ," Draco coughed, hands and feet scrambling at the rough-hewn structure behind him. He could barely move. The more he struggled, the harder he was pinned there. It was like there was a vice around his neck, strapped to his chest. He reached up, expecting to feel someone's hands, and found none. Nothing but air, and yet his breath was leaving his lungs with each ragged gasp, his throat closing with each thump of blood in his ears.

Somewhere off in the dark, he could see the outline of a man. There was a small light bobbing in front of him, illuminating the office's now open doorway, and the wand in his opposite hand. Draco searched frantically for his own, fingers scraping at the holster under his arm in desperation.

"Oh no no no, I don't think so."

Draco's wand flew out and away from him with a casual effortlessness that made fury boil under his skin. He could hear it skittering across the floor. No matter, he could go wandless in a pinch ― if he ever got himself down from there.

He tried to ignore the sense of impending doom as the first symptoms of suffocation overtook him. He'd been through worse, he could take this. All he had to do was continue to manage his breathing as best he could, think this through, strike when the man was close enough. He was walking this way now, his footfalls infuriatingly soft over the din from the other room and the roaring in Draco's head.

Just when he thought he might not be able to withstand another minute, the grip on his throat began to loosen. The blood gradually filtered away from his face, his vision clearing once more. The man was just there, standing right in front of him. The light he had with him was radiant even in the wake of the Powder. How could that be possible? No spell, nor flame, could penetrate Peruvian Darkness like that. Except…

Oh fuck. Draco realized with a skip of his pulse that it wasn't just a light. It was a Hand of Glory. A Hand of Glory he knew with a sickening dread that he should recognize ― and that of the face of the man who was holding it.

So the rumors _had_ been true. Pucey'd said there was tell of a _new_ Dark Lord's order forming, intending to pick up where the monster himself had left off. Draco had brushed it aside as utter tosh. There was no way, he'd said. Who would've been that stupid? Who would've bothered, after they'd already failed twice before? But now that _this_ man stood in front of him, he saw it for what it was. He'd been right there for the takeover of Hogwarts, had seen it from beginning to end. If any one of them knew how to lead a revolution, it was _him_.

But that was impossible, wasn't it? He was supposed to be dead. His sister had perished in the Battle of Hogwarts, and they'd said he was supposed to have gone down with her.

Draco choked, even as the Strangling Hex came to a stop. He was panicking. Dear Merlin, he was panicking, and this mask was _stifling_ , and he wanted to be anywhere but here, just _anywhere_ but here, now, with those mad eyes staring him down, right through to his soul. Somehow, he'd always known there would be a night when he'd encounter one of these people from his past, and it would set him off. He'd worked for years to hamper the anxieties his time with the Death Eaters had given him, but he'd always known there was a chance. It was a miracle it hadn't happened yet. Even with Rowle ― a man whom the Dark Lord had forced him to torture, at one point ― it hadn't been like this.

There'd always been something about Amycus Carrow.

"You know, it's funny. I knew a sniveling little boy, once, who was fond of using that stuff."

Carrow was smiling at him, a vicious, sneering twist of his thin, dry lips that made Draco's hair stand on end. He would've run for the hills without a second thought, if he wasn't still being pinned at the chest. He'd seen this man torture countless students the year he was at Hogwarts. Had watched how even McGonagall herself had trembled in fear of him. He'd stood by, on orders from the Dark Lord, while Carrow and his sister had inflicted unthinkable suffering in the name of 'justice' for their kind ― punishing those poor children for doing nothing other than simply existing. Had had to will himself not to dig out his eardrums every time he heard them begging for death, _begging_ to let them die rather than to continue to live through that anymore ― only to receive another lashing.

"Gave me this Hand, he did. Or, well ― not so much gave it me as misplaced it, and I wasn't about to waste the opportunity. I doubt he even noticed. That turned out to be rather a crazy night, after all."

Did he know? Draco thought with a crazed spark at the edge of his consciousness, a burning bile rising in his gullet.

"I wonder if you know him, hmm?"

There was no way he could know. Was there?

"Lucius Malfoy's son. Draco, I believe it was."

He knew. Fucking hell, he _knew_ , didn't he? He _knew_.

"I was just thinking to myself when you might be coming to pay us a visit. Well, I was _expecting it_ , actually. I would've been very surprised indeed had you been able to somehow avoid sticking your nose around here, where it clearly doesn't belong."

He needed to get out of there, and fast. It turned his insides to rot to think of what Carrow might be planning for him now. After all he'd seen him do before, he wouldn't have put anything past him.

" _V_ ― _v_ ―"

"What's that, dear? Can't quite hear you."

Carrow inched closer and closer still, pocketing his wand to reach out towards Draco's face. He thrashed, fighting a sob.

" _V-v-v_ ―"

"Let's see just what you look like under here, shall we?"

" _V_ ― _Viperae morsum_!"

Carrow howled in pain, stumbling backwards as a wave of venom surged through the air towards him. He tripped and fell to the ground, screaming over and over again, clawing at his face, the sound of sizzling skin rising over each crack in his voice. The spell holding Draco to the wall suddenly released him, and he landed flat on his arse, scrambling to his feet with a fresh batch of adrenaline a moment later and dashing back down the hall in what he prayed was the direction of the door. Just as he bent to fumble blindly for his wand, relief washing over him when his hand finally closed around the handle, he felt a hand tugging at his ankle, nearly pulling him down again, and he shouted another spray of chemical over his shoulder without bothering to turn back and see if it hit. The resulting shriek told him it did, anyway.

Outside was freezing. The snow had just begun to fall, making the streets slippery beneath his frantically stomping feet as he dashed through the streets, not even bothering to take to the roofs, or use a Coin, his sights set on nothing but the Apparition point ― but home ― but far, _far_ away from here. He didn't know how he managed to travel once he got there without Splinching himself, but he did it, he was there, ripping his mask from his face and tossing it aside, falling to hands and knees in the neatly-trimmed grass, the looming face of Malfoy Manor wavering and swirling and melding into odd, unnatural shapes as his eyes blurred and crossed and sent jabs of pain through his forehead.

Someone was lumbering towards him across the garden. He couldn't even make out who they were till they spoke, huddled and shivering there as he was.

"Master Draco! I heard the wards go off, but I thought it must be too early for you to be back yet. Are you alright? What's happened?"

He was gasping, panting, practically _wheezing_.

"I ― I think I'm going to be sick."

"Up you get, sir, up you get ― there you go, I've got you."

The next hour was a blur, and then darkness. He woke in the early morning, curled on the floor of his bathroom, his costume in shambles around him, a horrified Noorey teetering by the doorway with a cup of tea and a neverending stream of comforting words, and he couldn't help it; he cried. He cried like that whimpering little teen in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, cried like he hadn't done in years. Noorey rushed to help him as he vomited again, then dragged him to his bed, where he lay in a fetal position under his covers for what felt like days, dreaming little ― but when he did, it was with Amycus Carrow's insane, grinning face hovering in each corner like a specter, haunting his every step.


	6. Chapter 6

Draco had to congratulate the weather today; it was fitting his mood.

It had started out misty in the morning, big gray clouds looming menacingly overhead. The sky had been threatening rain for days, and now it was really delivering ― the stuff was pouring down in buckets. Wasn't quite cold enough for snow, but the wind made it feel like ice, cutting through the sheets of rain and sending it sideways into passersby. Needless to say, not many had worked up the courage to brave the outdoors.

Draco didn't know why he'd chosen today of all days to finally leave his house. He'd been living like a hermit for the past two weeks. It had felt strange, at first, to not be going out every night, to not be training in his gym every day. But then, after a day or two, he found he couldn't convince himself to put on that costume even if he'd wanted to.

Diagon Alley was practically a ghost town. Some of the shops had maybe a patron or three, but they were mostly deserted, and the streets were desolate. Draco walked under a Heat Charmed umbrella, expensive Italian loafers getting further ruined in each puddle he traipsed through. To be honest, though, he wasn't exactly trying to avoid them. It was something to do, something to occupy his mind, even if it was just the thought that he'd probably have to buy a new pair ― something more than sitting in his parlour, eating far too many sweets, and feeling sorry for himself, anyhow. Gone was the posh Draco Malfoy that would've blanched at the idea of going outside in the rain, apparently. Was probably gone the first night a goon had punched him square in the face, he'd wager.

He didn't know why he paused at the newstand. He knew it wouldn't be anything good, but he felt compelled to look. He got as far as one headline ― **KNOCKTURN'S NE'ER-DO-WELLS SEND BLACK ADDER CRYING TO HIS MUMMY** ― before he gave up and stormed off.

All it took for them to think he was on his way out was a couple weeks off. The _Prophet_ had been kind ― of course he had Pansy to thank for that ― but there were others. One had called him a hack; another had suggested that he'd finally realized what a hard job it was, had made the 'wise decision' to leave it to the real pros. Their biggest rival, the _London Seer_ , had even begun speculating that he'd died. Fame certainly was a fickle mistress.

He headed for the cafe. He'd woken up determined to get himself to go out today, even it was just for a coffee run. They were slower as well, but there were a few people still. Hot drinks in cold, rainy weather; it made sense. He ordered his usual latte and took a seat at a small table by the window, nodding in thanks when the steaming mug was set before him a minute later.

He watched the rain fall, feeling foolish. How many months had he been doing this Black Adder thing, how many times had he stumbled and had to pick himself back up ― and he'd let this one man, this one _lunatic_ , bring it all crashing down. Even forcing himself out for a cup of coffee was taxing. He remembered a time, immediately following the war, when you couldn't have paid him to stay home. Back then, he'd been busy hopping from club to club, and bed to bed, trying to hide from himself. This...This was something else entirely.

For days, he'd kept expecting to get a letter or a Fire-call from Pansy, Blaise, Theo ― any one of his friends, telling him to stop moping about, like they always did, giving that little spark he needed to get his arse in gear once again. But none of them had. The one time he'd seen them, the day after the incident, he'd told them about what had happened, and they'd looked...sorry for him. A reaction he just couldn't bear.

His mother had written him. He didn't have much contact with his father ― they'd never had the best relationship ― but he spoke with her as often as he could. She'd sent him a letter just the other day asking him what he knew about this Black Adder character, how they were still getting the _Prophet_ delivered and she'd heard so many great things about him, but now it seemed like he'd fallen out, and it broke his heart. He still hadn't replied; he just didn't know what to say.

He couldn't help but feel...lost in all of this. Broken. He'd failed a mission for the first time, and Malfoy's didn't like to fail. He didn't know if he could go on as the Black Adder ― couldn't reconcile continuing in his nightly tasks while the 'one that got away' still roamed free. But it was something else, too. It had made him feel like a boy again, staring into Amycus Carrow's crazed eyes. A boy that had gotten caught up in something he never should've been a part of to begin with.

He heard footsteps approaching his table and looked up to find Ron Weasley standing before him, giving him a small wave in greeting. Draco groaned. He hadn't necessarily expected to see him there today, although he would've been lying if he'd said he hadn't known it was a possibility. Part of him had hoped ― a part that he hated.

"Can't ever fucking escape you, can I?"

"I was about to say the same."

Draco didn't know how long he'd been sitting there, but his coffee had already gone cold, and he hadn't even taken a sip. He was beginning to think he should probably just leave ― but Weasley was still standing there with that hopeful expression, and Draco found himself rolling his eyes and gesturing to the empty chair across from him. Weasley took the offered seat with little hesitation, setting his takeaway cup on the table. Probably his usual black coffee, Draco thought to himself ― then promptly wondered for about the thousandth time why he would bother to remember something like that.

They sat in silence for a long, uncomfortable beat. It had been awhile, actually, since they'd last spoken. Well, at least since it had been more than pleasantries. Since before the New Year's party ― Draco knew that, but he didn't like to think about it, didn't like how Weasley had seemed so indifferent to him in the times after that. Almost as if they were in school again.

But Weasley didn't seem irritated at the thought of being near him today. He was sitting there with a mildly content expression, looking out the window, sipping his coffee. The bags under his eyes weren't as dark, the stubble gone from his chin. His clothes actually looked like they'd been laundered recently, and they even matched. Draco didn't know how he felt about that. He'd rather liked the haphazard Weasley, the one for whom the Black Adder had made life a living hell. Well, _like_ was probably a strong word.

The redhead turned to him then, catching his eye. In a moment of vulnerability, Draco blurted the first thing he could think of.

"You look like shit."

Weasley harrumphed, but the anger didn't reach his eyes. "Thanks. I could say the same to you, you know."

"You could, yes, and you'd be lying."

They were silent again ― until Weasley gestured to the water sloshing out of the rain gutter outside and said in an airy voice, as if it was perfectly normal for them to talk in such a way:

"Dreadful out, isn't it?"

Draco scoffed and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "Did you really come over here to talk about the weather?"

Weasley chuckled and shook his head, returning to a more familiar tone. "No, I came over to talk in general, because that's typically what we do when we run into each other here. Or, at least...we were for awhile." He took another sip of his coffee, turning thoughtful. "Also, you look less cheery today than you have recently."

Draco's nostrils flared. He looked away pointedly, no longer feeling comfortable seeing Weasley eye-to-eye. Of course, he'd admit he was probably wearing his despair all over his face, but he didn't want to consider why Weasley might've noticed.

"Is that your way of asking how I'm doing? Didn't know you cared."

Draco caught Weasley's scowl out of the corner of his eye and knew he'd said the wrong thing.

"Look, can you at least give me a little credit for _trying_ , anyway? You haven't exactly earned me caring, if you recall."

The chuckle he gave then held no mirth whatsoever. There was no use in denying it; what he said was true. That was probably what troubled Draco the most about this: that Weasley had absolutely no reason to care about him, and yet he'd still bothered to try to make conversation with him nearly every bloody day in this stupid coffee shop for the better part of a year.

"I'm not some charity case. You don't need to play nice with me just because I made a few piteous speeches in court, or gave a donation or two ― or because your precious Potter and Granger said so. I'd rather you went on hating me, if that's how it is."

"Malfoy."

He wanted to feel angry. He didn't want this black tar of hurt filling his insides, turning him sickly from the inside out. This was exactly what he _didn't_ need today. And yet Weasley's voice still prompted him to turn back, to see the furrowed brows and the thin, worried line of his lips.

"I don't think that about you. I mean. Alright. Maybe it _was_ that to start ― maybe it _was_ Harry and Hermione encouraging me to give you another shot, to...I don't know, acknowledge you've been doing a better job of things than when we were kids. But that's not what it is now, nor has it been for awhile. And if you think for a second I do things just because other people tell me to, then you don't know me at all."

Not for the first time, Draco found himself struck by Weasley's sincerity. He looked away again, suddenly at a loss for words. Somewhere deep inside, he'd always known that Weasley had been talking to him of his own accord. Had wanted desperately to believe it, in fact, although he'd never admit it. It was just hard ― starting out on a clean slate with someone he shared such a horrible past with. There were bound to be a few bumps.

Outside, the rain had stopped. _Poetic_ , he thought, fighting a wry smile. He rubbed his fingers over his mouth, watching a couple huddling together for warmth as they walked, a copy of the _London Seer_ held open between them.

"Don't you ever wonder why you bother?"

He heard Weasley startle. The confusion was apparent in his voice. "With...?"

Draco gestured vaguely. "The Auror thing. Putting all this work in to help people ― and for what? There's always another bad guy after that. And now there's also this," he felt his stomach flip at the thought of even saying it aloud, "Black Adder bloke swooping in and showing you up time and time again. Don't you ever think about that?"

Weasley shifted in his seat as Draco turned to look at him. He watched him chew his lip, thinking. It was awhile before he answered again.

"Yeah, sometimes I do. I mean, of course, I'm sure everybody does. But…" He laughed ― a short, self-conscious sound. "This is gonna sound really daft, but...Then I remember those faces, you know? Of the people I've helped. How happy they were. And that pretty well makes up for all the rest."

For a moment, Draco could see a glimpse of Greg's face, when he'd told him that Vince's father was finally behind bars where he belonged. That had been his first major collar, months and months ago, and the retribution they'd felt back then overwhelmed him even now. There'd never been a rush quite like that, not before or since. To look that piece of shit, sorry excuse for a parent in the eye and know that his son's soul was finally getting justice for all the things he'd been roped into ― all the things that had ultimately led to his untimely death.

"I can understand that."

They sat silent once more, but this time Draco could feel the tension breaking between them. Weasley sipped his coffee and returned to his study of the window, and the barista came by and offered to fetch Draco another cup. He agreed, if only because he wanted to be able to say he'd actually tasted some of it. It was just after she'd returned with a fresh one that Weasley spoke again.

"You know ― the Black Adder isn't really all that bad."

Draco quirked an eyebrow. "No?"

"My superiors would probably kill me for saying so, but I don't think he is. I mean, look at the trash he's bringing in. They deserved to be in Azkaban already, the whole lot. I think he's doing a bang up job." Draco fought a smile, feeling his heart flutter a little at that. "He's making us look like shit, sure, and I don't much appreciate that, but he's doing good work.

"I just can't figure him out, is all," he continued. "I've been trying, believe me I have ― I spend nearly all day and night on it, but. How does he do it?" Ron gave the same small laugh and added, "I know I shouldn't be telling you this, but sometimes I think...Harry's got this invisibility cloak, right? Not one of those cheap ones, either, a _real_ one. Since the Black Adder came around, I've been wondering if it's really the _only_ one, you know? He's always one step ahead, always just ― _right there_ , but still not. That's ridiculous, I know ― he's probably not _invisible_ , just has us under surveillance as much as we do his targets, knows what we're doing all the time ―"

Invisible? Draco ears perked, and he suddenly sat up straight in his seat, feeling his heart restart. Invisible. It couldn't be that simple, could it? But the more he considered it, the more he thought that maybe ―

"You're a bloody genius."

"I'm a what? Wait! Malfoy!"

The door of the shop jangled shut behind him. He tore through the streets, umbrella dangling unused at his wrist. Invisible. He needed to become invisible. And he knew just who could help him.

☠               ☠               ☠

"Blaise?"

Zabini's Emporium was just as empty as any other shop in Diagon on this dull and drizzly afternoon. Draco stepped into the sparsely-lit room to find himself completely alone. As he shifted there on the welcome mat, shaking the remnants of excess rain water from his umbrella, candles began to spark to life all around the store, one by one, a telling sign that no one had passed through in quite some time. The door having been left unlocked was the only indication they were still open at all. It was odd, actually, to see a place that was normally bursting at the seams with customers so utterly bereft. Funny how a touch of rain could so easily scare them away.

"You here?"

Again, no answer. The only sounds he heard were the light whistling of the self-boiling teapots at the shelf along the wall and the whir of the Wizarding Home Security Systems in the window display. Still jittery, ideas flying through his head, Draco rushed up to the counter, leaning over it to try to peer down the hall that led to Blaise's office. He was just about to head back there anyway, when one of the young shop associates appeared, carrying a box from the storage room.

"Oh, hello, Mr. Malfoy ―"

"Blaise here?"

"Yeah, he's in the back ―"

"Great, thank you."

"Mr. Malfoy here to see you, sir!"

The announcement floated after him as he raced down the corridor to Blaise's door, wrenching it open to find his friend standing by his desk, leafing through a ledger. The darker man took one look at Draco's face and immediately straightened up, snapping the book shut and setting it aside.

"Everything alright?"

"We need to talk about Carrow."

Blaise's eyes widened for a brief moment in his otherwise impassive face, before he ushered Draco to come in and take a seat, shutting the door and activating a Silencing Charm for good measure. The blond waited for Blaise to settle behind his desk, twisting his umbrella in his hands, trying to collect his thoughts.

"He was onto me, right? He knew I'd be coming for him eventually, and he set up boobytraps, to make sure I wouldn't get very far. I activated them even with the Darkness Powder, so I was thinking ― what if I was invisible?"

"Invisible?"

"Or maybe not _just_ invisible, but undetectable?"

Blaise licked his lips, staring back at him as he thought. A light had turned on behind his irises, however, and Draco knew that was always a good sign.

"Undetectable." He let the word hang in the air for a moment, before saying slowly, "And how do you hope to achieve this?"

"A potion? I think that would be the only way to make sure it affected my whole body. Plus I wouldn't run the risk of any of the other issues that cloaks and things like that have, like snagging or coming off."

"You know as well as I that invisibility potions haven't ever been the most reliable. Nor have I ever heard of one that could make the drinker _completely_ undetectable. But...It's possible we could figure something out. I can think of a few recipes we could base it on ― mix some stuff together, test it out, see what works. It's worth a shot, anyway."

Draco felt a flutter in his chest, the weight on his shoulders lightening somewhat. "It would take some time to brew, I imagine?"

"Probably, yes."

Time enough for him to regroup, strategize, plan his attack. Now that he thought about it, he could even start out by rounding up some members of Carrow's crew. Shake him, get him scared, make it more likely for him to find himself lacking support by the time Draco showed up again.

"Good. Great. Meanwhile, I'm going to see what I can dig up on his recruits, maybe get to him that way."

A corner of Blaise's lips quirked at that. "Sounds promising. I can come by tomorrow after I close up to start on the potion, if that works for you."

Draco was already on his feet again, bound for the door. He had to get an owl to Pucey, see what he'd been hearing around Knockturn lately, scope out some prospects.

"Yeah, that's fine."

"So you're done sulking, then?"

He paused, his hand still resting on the knob, and turned to find Blaise smirking at him now, his eyes fully alight. Draco huffed a disbelieving laugh, feeling giddier than he had in weeks.

"I've been waiting for you to say that."

"What?"

"Never mind. Thanks."

Blaise chuckled and waved him away. "Any time."

The sun was peeking out from around the clouds for the first time all day. Draco sped through drying puddles towards the Apparition point, a bounce in his step that he thought he'd lost. He hadn't felt this excited and determined since his very first mission. Whether or not he and Blaise would be able to actually pull this off, he didn't know ― but he knew that no matter what, he was back in the game, and he was going to make Amycus Carrow lament the day he ever crossed paths with the Black Adder.


	7. Chapter 7

If Draco had learned anything from his time in the Dark Lord's clan, it was this: to shake the man at the top, you had to first go for the lackeys at the bottom.

It was with this principle in mind that he'd spent the past few weeks. While he and Blaise tended to their new potion in the daytime, Draco filled his nights with making Amycus Carrow's crew quiver in their boots. Pucey had been an excellent help once again ― as much as that continued to shock him ― feeding Draco all the information he could about those who had chosen to enlist in this revamped Death Eaters squad. He'd arrested three thus far, and although he was sure the Aurors weren't pleased, he could safely say he was feeling much more on top of his game. But what he really needed from them was the location of Carrow's headquarters, and that was the one thing they'd all refused to give him. He knew that old shop in Knockturn had been a front ― a one-time thing, to see if the Black Adder would come out and play. He needed to catch him where he lived.

Tonight, he waited on a rooftop, resting his back against the chimney stack. Cold shingles chilled his arse where he sat. He'd been there for hours with no sign of his target. But this profession had taught him a great deal of patience, and he was determined.

Samuel Backus had been five years Draco's junior in Slytherin. He hadn't paid the boy much mind back then, as of course his last two terms at Hogwarts had left him preoccupied. However, they'd gotten to know each other as best as an elder and younger student sharing the same common room could. He'd been smart, from what Draco recalled, if not a bit imprudent.

One thing that Draco could universally acknowledge about his underclassmen was that they'd all the been forced to witness things they couldn't possibly have understood at their age. What he and his own dormmates had had to face was tragic in itself, but the younger ones...They'd never even been given a chance to pick a side, especially in Slytherin. McGonagall had sent many of them off the premises before they could get caught up in the fray, but he knew from around town that Backus, as well as some others, had managed to slip through the cracks. No one had been paying attention that day, and he could understand why, but still. They'd fought a fight that wasn't even theirs. And some of them had lost their lives for it. Backus had watched his best friend go down right by his side, from what Draco had heard.

It was nearly morning when Backus finally returned home from the pubs, and Draco gave him a ten minute head start before he moved in. The front door was the only spot with wards in the entire house. It took nothing but an effortless _Alohomora_ to unlatch the window over the kitchen sink. Careless. Cocky. Backus thinking that people like him and his new friends couldn't be touched. Draco remembered what that felt like all too well.

He slowly pried it opened, stepping gingerly over the basin and onto the tile floor. Backus was facing away from him, digging through his pantry, a bottle of Knotgrass Mead sitting open on the counter beside him. He was so tall now, but still slender, all arms, and he was swaying on his feet, obviously drunk.

Backus turned around, ripping open a packet of biscuits. It was just as he was sliding one into his mouth that he paused, realizing he was no longer as alone as he must've thought.

Merlin, but he looked so young. Barely even twenty yet ― fresh-faced and so...gullible. It turned Draco's stomach to think he'd been _even younger_ when they'd recruited him. And Backus had been a kid during Snape and the Carrows' reign. He could see how those events might've turned him to their side, but Draco wanted to do all he could he try to convince him otherwise.

Backus' eyes were wide, jaw left hanging open, snack forgotten. There was fear there, hidden under a paltry mask of defiance. That could've been a good sign. Maybe he wasn't completely won over to their side yet.

Backus' joyless laugh broke the silence, and he turned to take a swig from his bottle. "I was wondering when you might be coming for me." Swallowing gruffly, he set it back with a bang, tossing his biscuits down as well.

"You know you don't need them, Sam."

The boy's head snapped up, eyes skittish as they searched Draco's stiff, impassive visage. He could plainly see he'd caught him off guard with that. It might have been a poor choice. Of course, he didn't want to give himself away ― but he thought if he stood even the slightest chance at turning this kid's life around, at convincing him to head in a new direction, he had to show him he could relate to him.

"Don't need who?" he finally replied, his voice low, but challenging, the barest of grins tugging at one corner of his mouth.

"Don't play games. I know you're in with Amycus Carrow."

Backus' eyebrows raised, but there was little shock to be seen in his features. He was young, he was naive, but he wasn't dumb; he knew why Draco was there.

"And why is that any of your business?" Snorting, he hurried to add, "Oh, pardon me, I'd forgot ― you've gone ahead and decided that any pure-blood going about their daily life is now _your_ business."

"Blood status has nothing to do with it."

"Doesn't it?"

"No. I arrest criminals. Nothing more, nothing less."

"And the fact that most of them happen to be former Death Eaters is, I'm sure, just a coincidence. Right?"

Laughing again, Backus took another long drink, and Draco let him, encouraging himself to take a mental step back. He was there to try and help him. There was no reason to allow the conversation to descend into wank.

"So why are you here for me? I'm no criminal."

"You said yourself you were wondering when I'd turn up. I think that is pretty indicative of criminal activity, don't you?" Backus looked away, and he knew he'd caught him. "Do you have any idea just how deep you are? Plotting an attack on the Ministry ―"

"We are simply fighting to regain our god given rights as _pure_ witches and wizards."

"Where have your rights gone? No one's taken them ―"

" _They_ have taken them."

His response was so firm, tinged with such aggression, that it made Draco pause. This Backus ― this wasn't the one he remembered from school. Obviously, he'd expected much to have changed over the years, but to see the way he fumed now, his nostrils flaring, was making him reconsider his stance.

"The halfbreed scum who dare to label themselves a part of wizarding kind. They have tainted what it means to be magical, and they have turned our race into a cesspool. And society actually _favors_ them now! They're everywhere! There's even one running your precious Auror department ― did you know that?"

"Yes, and she is perfectly capable of doing so." Granger probably would've had a field day, hearing him now. How times had changed. "Your race isn't being tainted, and nothing has been lost. I know it looks that way from where you're standing right now, but believe me, it isn't so. Carrow and the others ― they're poisoning your mind. Don't allow them to decide what you think."

It was no use, much as he wanted there to be, he could see that now. Backus was getting increasingly agitated as time wore on, his fists clenching at his sides. Draco knew from personal experience that there was little anyone could say to turn someone when they were already entrenched in this lifestyle, day in and day out. He felt foolish for even trying, but he'd wanted so badly to be wrong, just this once.

"Carrow says the Dark Lord set things in motion, and there are many out there who agree and who will stand by us, if we remain strong and take back what is rightfully ours."

"I'm sure Carrow promised you many things ― but you must know he can't deliver on them. There's a reason their organization has failed twice now. Why would you choose to trust them on a third?"

"I don't need to explain myself, least of all to you. There's no way you could possibly understand."

Draco shut his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. The way Backus was speaking now was so reminiscent of him as a teen, it was uncanny. To hear such things from someone else, after all this time ― to hear it thrown back at him like this, after all the work he'd put in to retrain himself ― shook him to his core.

"I _do_ understand. I can't tell you how, but trust me, I do. They are deceiving you ― this is _not_ the way. You don't need them. I can help get you out ―"

"Help me? I didn't _ask_ for your help!" There was that fear again, in the bulging of his eyes, the shriek in his voice. Draco had desperately wanted to believe it was a fear of being in the wrong, but he could see it now for what it really was: the fear of being caught. "Is that what you think you've been doing all this time? _Helping_ us? You're throwing my brothers in jail just for trying to make a better world for us pure-bloods, and calling it 'helping'! Magic. Is. Dying! It gets weaker and weaker every day one of those abominations gets born ― a half-blood, or worse! If you had even one shred of pride for your own people, then you would stand aside and let us do what needs to be done!"

Backus stopped then, for a moment, his brows knitting together as he regarded him once more. There was nothing Draco could've done to prepare himself for what he said next.

"Unless you're not. Unless you're one of them. A Mudblood."

The blow to his ego was sickening. Even after all this time, the very suggestion...He hated himself for it. Some things were harder to smother than others.

"That's it, isn't it? Fucking hell, I should've known. It would be one of you disgusting maggots running this shit show."

The words made Draco's skin crawl. What had happened to this kid in the years since he'd seen him, to make him like this? He knew what it was like to be raised in that world, but he hadn't wanted to believe it had been like that for the younger generation.

And yet, he knew what he must do now. He'd hoped for a different outcome, of course ― but although he was disappointed, he was sorry to say he wasn't surprised. He shook off the feeling, standing firm.

"If you can't be convinced, then unfortunately I'm going to have to take you in ―"

"Like hell you are ―"

"― and let the Aurors decide what to do with you. And don't misunderstand, they will not be as fond of talking it over as I've been. They're going to put you in Azkaban, Sam. Is that what you want? You have other options."

Backus looked scared stiff at the very idea. He was going to bolt; Draco had been around the block enough times now to know the signs. He slid a hand up to his wand, keeping it holstered, but making sure Backus could see it there under his cape. The boy stared at it, licking his lips, making some internal decision of his own. Draco remained poised, ready to strike if necessary.

"Now, I don't want to hurt you. But if you won't come quietly, I'm not above using force."

Tension crackled on the air as they stood, facing each other off, nothing but a kitchen island to separate them. Draco scanned the room and made some quick calculations. Either Backus was going to try to make a run for it, pull a wand (if he even had one in those pajama bottoms) and attempt to subdue him ― or throw that bottle of his.

He was just about to make a move of his own, when suddenly:

"You're not taking me anywhere! Filthy Mudblood!"

Bottle it was, then.

Draco ducked, covering his head as it smashed against the wall behind him, showering the area in beer and broken glass. Hoping a fast recovery would throw him off, he then leapt back up, aiming a Stunning Spell at the boy's head. However, Backus had in fact been smart enough to keep his wand handy, and he was already flinging his arm out by the time Draco reemerged, shouting a counter of his own. Draco spun out of the way, grimacing as he heard the spell hit the window, its frame shattering and pouring down to the floor.

Before Backus could come back with another, Draco vaulted the island, landing a forceful kick square to his chest. He went flying backwards, losing his footing as he stumbled into the pantry. Draco wrenched him back to his feet by the front of his shirt, preparing to flip him around and get him tied up. Unfortunately, Backus had other plans.

He returned the favor with a knee to the gut. Draco gasped, feeling all the air rush from his lungs in one stomach-turning second. The force of the impact pushed him back, releasing his grip on Backus, but he refused to buckle. When the boy came for him again with a punch aimed at his jaw, Draco threw an arm up to block him, following up the opposite hand until he connected, his fist digging into Backus' side, near his kidney. Backus wailed in agony, almost falling to the ground himself, but the kid was scrappy and didn't appear to be that easily subdued. Draco had raised his wand again, an incantation teetering on the tip of his tongue when Backus lunged, and he was quick to react.

With the boy's wrists tight in his grasp, Draco held strong, pushing him back towards the wall. They grappled, each trying to rid the other of their wand. He hadn't been wrong in his earlier estimation ― Backus was thin, not an ounce of muscle on him, so his height didn't do much for him in this instance. For the first time, Draco wasn't stunned to find himself at an advantage when it came to strength. Backus' eyes were widening as his stance faltered, one heel almost slipping out from under him. And then he did the only thing he could feasibly do in that situation.

In one powerful rush, Backus surged forward, sending Draco careening into the counter behind him. He felt his lower back hit and nearly saw stars. By the time his vision had returned, his target was already halfway out the door.

A Knockback Jinx tripped him. He heard the click of the boy's jaw as his chin hit the hardwood floor in the hall. Draco was on him a moment later, Charmed rope spilling from the tip of his wand. He wrestled with the struggling Backus, attempting to get his hands tied behind his back, but he was too nimble: he managed to get himself flipped around.

" _Incendio_!"

Draco couldn't have been more thankful for his own body's quick thinking. The moment the cord burst into flames, he flung his hand to the side, tossing it away. It landed with a horrifying sizzle in the corner by the door. That was a _stupid_ move on Backus' part ― incredibly stupid. Draco smacked across the side of his head, doing it again for good measure. Blood poured from the cut to Backus' nose where he'd connected. He struck once more, feeling the boy's head bounce back against his hand as it hit the floor below. He was whimpering now, but had stopped struggling, and so Draco stumbled back to his feet, shooting a stream of water to put out the fire before it spread.

In the split second he'd left him on the floor, Backus was already on the move. He'd flipped over again, and was crawling as fast as he could towards the front door. Draco reached for his ankle, but he yanked himself free, scrambling to his feet.

They tumbled down the hall, spells flying. Picture frames rattled on the walls, and candles blew out as each shot flew by. Draco watched the color drain from Backus' face as he just barely dodged a spray of the Black Adder's signature toxin, a few stray drops burning holes through the thick cotton of his nightwear.

Another well aimed hex, and Backus flung himself into the adjoining living room, Draco hot on his tail. The boy raced around the sofa, desperately trying to put something between them again, backing himself up against the fireplace beyond. Draco thought with wry smirk that he felt guilty for that all he was doing was forcing himself into a corner.

" _Stupefy_!"

" _Expelliarmus_!"

Sparks collided in the center of the room, and they both dropped to the floor. Backus was quick on the draw, Draco had to give him that. He needed to end this, _now_.

"You don't have to do this, Sam! I can help you!"

"How do you know my name? How the _fuck_ do you know my name?"

A flurry of curses whizzed over Draco's head just as he ducked again, nearly searing the top of his hood in their ferocity. They burst against the wall, leaving a charred smudge across the chipping paint.

He remained still, planning his next move. He could hear Backus' heavy breathing from the other side, could hear his terrified sniffling over the ringing in his ears. It pained him to be doing this. He was just a kid, and Draco still remembered well what it was like to be young and stupid and to think the world owed him everything. But he couldn't let Carrow have his army ― and if this was what it took to bring him down, then so be it.

" _Incarcerous_!"

"What the ― _fuck_ ―"

The walls shook as Backus fell face-first onto the carpet, a thick cord wrapping itself around his ankles. Draco crawled out from under the sofa and clambored to his feet. It had been a sneaky shot, he knew, but he hadn't had any other choice.

" _Expelliarmus_."

Draco caught the wand in his free hand as it came flying, holstering his own and tucking Backus' into the empty space he kept at the opposite side.

The boy was struggling on the ground when he got to him, attempting to pull himself across it. Draco sunk down on top of him, digging a knee into his back, and yanked his arms up behind him.

"I'm sorry, but this is for your own good. Now, are you going to tell me where Carrow's hiding out, or am I going to have to break your nose a second time?"

Backus spat through the blood still pouring from his face. "You wanna know that, you're gonna have to torture me."

Draco grit his teeth. There'd been a time in his life when he'd done such things, but it had been on command ― and he wasn't like that anymore. Backus knew it, too; he could tell by the way he said it. He probably didn't even _have_ the information to give. It wasn't worth the hassle.

The dangling ends of the rope at his ankles Draco used to bind his hands as well, trussing him up. Getting to his feet again, pulling Backus along with him, he groaned, already feeling the soreness in his muscles and knowing it was going to be a rough day tomorrow. But he had his man ― at least he could feel triumphant about that.

With a twist of his heel, they were on their way.


	8. Chapter 8

Oh no. No no no no no, Godric and Salazar, _fuck_ , no.

The sun had already risen.

How long had they been there? How long had he been waiting before that? It must've been later in the morning than he'd realized when he'd snuck inside Backus' house, that was the only explanation.

Draco's heart thudded in his chest. Surely the shops would be opening by now. The streets would soon be packed. Even this early, with the Ministry's new entrance, Diagon Alley was a madhouse. There was no way he was going to get to the steps unnoticed, but he couldn't ―

"What are you waiting ―"

A Stunning Spell to the head, and Backus slumped unconscious in his arms. Draco let him slide down to the ground, trying to think. He couldn't just leave him here, couldn't take him back to his house. Couldn't risk him getting to Carrow somehow. And the longer they stood where they were, the more likely they were to get caught by someone else coming through the Apparition point. No, he had to take him in, _now_ , no matter what bloody time it was.

An Adder Coin. That'd be the fastest, least detectable way. He could send him straight over there, or even pop in and out himself to be sure he arrived in relatively no time at all. He reached into his cape pocket, fishing around for that small bit of metal, and then his heart stopped altogether.

He didn't have one. _He didn't bloody have one_. How could he have forgotten that? Well, he hadn't thought he'd really be needing it, but _Merlin_ , he'd really fucked up now. He'd let himself get sloppy, and had cocked the whole thing up, and now ― now he had to just do it, and pray no one important would be watching.

He dashed down the alley and around the corner, Backus levitating along behind him. There was a pop, followed by a cry of surprise, as someone suddenly appeared back at the point. On the street, he could now see a shop owner coming out to douse the lamps hanging on either side of his door, and Draco froze. The man did a double take when he caught sight of him, giving a shout of his own, which prompted yet more to start poking their heads out their doors. Panicking, Draco did the only thing he could think to do.

Oohs and aahs rose from the ground below as he scaled the nearest wall with dexterity and took off across the rooftops. Bells jangled as doors flung open, store associates coming out to point and gawk. Groups of Ministry workers on their way into the office stopped and stared. Draco ran and ran, bridging the gaps between buildings in breathtaking leaps. Only the stickiness on the bottoms of his boots kept him from slipping.

"Well, would you look at that!"

"It's the Black Adder!"

Past Madam Malkin's and Florean Fortescue's. Past Eeylops, owls screeching from their cages in the window display as their sleep was disturbed by the audience's cries. Through rain gutters around steep ceilings, catching himself on beams as he desperately tried not to lose his footing. Draco had never longed for a broom so much in his life ― and as a man whose childhood was spent mostly in the air, that was saying something. He wondered if he could risk stopping to borrow one from Quality Quidditch Supplies, but quickly dismissed the thought as ludicrous.

"What's he doing?"

"Who is that with him?"

Why had they chosen to build the Ministry's entrance so far from the Apparition point in the first place? Probably for extra security, but it didn't help him feel better to remind himself of that as he bound across another rift, a chorus of gasps floating up to him from the street. He was coming up on Gringotts now, a crowd of goblins gathering on the steps to watch. At the fork in the road, he snaked his way down their towering pillars, dodged shrieking onlookers across the pathway, and shimmied back up the building on the other side.

The very tip of the Ministry's entrance was in his sights. If he hopped across the back alley on this street, he would be there within the minute. He clambered over where the shingles peaked and dropped to the other side, maintaining his pace as he surged onwards. One more leap, and then another, on and on as that pinprick of marble in the distance loomed larger and larger, and then ―

Suddenly, he found himself standing at the edge of the last rooftop, the courtyard outside the Ministry laid before him. A mass was congregating in front of the steps below, pointing up at him and talking excitedly to each other. Still more were hurrying in from the connecting streets. Draco stood there for a moment, trying to catch his breath and think. Right. Levitate the kid down there, then take off back the way he came. Easy enough. He could certainly make it to the Apparition point without being followed, couldn't he? No one would know where he was headed, anyway, unless they grabbed him and tagged along, and he didn't foresee anyone attempting it.

With a wave of his hand, Backus swerved around him and soared through the air towards the steps. To Draco's amazement, the crowd cheered as he landed. The sound of it, swelling up from the ground, rippling through them all as they raised their hands in praise ― it paralyzed him. What were they so happy about? What he'd just done, or just the sight of him there on top of that shop? Was this what it was like to have fans? If so, he could see why some celebrities tried to live as secluded of lives as they could.

Then he saw him.

He wasn't difficult to spot, with his unruly ginger hair. So tall, as well ― perpetually just two infuriating inches above Draco's own head. He saw him there, pushing his way towards the front of the horde, and the blood in his veins turned to ice.

"Hey! Stop!"

Draco didn't know what the hell he was doing until his feet had already made the decision for him. Ron Weasley's voice carried over the din behind him, and he tried his best to block it out, to focus on each pump of his legs as they carried him forward. Back over the rooftops, back down the road towards Gringotts, he ran, ran with every last ounce of his energy, willing himself to _go faster, don't stop_.

The first spell hit the chimney directly beside him. Sparks burst and showered down on his head. Draco gave a little cry of surprise, glancing back at the smoldering brick as he passed. He couldn't help but be in awe, even through his terror. To come that close while he was on the move ― Weasley's aim was impeccable. He dared to look towards the ground, and found Weasley there in full Auror uniform, running along just a step behind him. It was the only reason he saw the next one coming.

"Shit, shit, shit!"

Draco felt more than heard his voice break as he was suddenly plummeting to the ground. The hex Weasley had sent his way zoomed past his stomach, just narrowly missing Draco as he bowed his back to avoid it. The rooftop had ended, a gap between that one and the next, and in his carelessness he toppled forward and down, hands reaching for the opposite wall, barely latching on, slowing his descent as he careened towards the cobblestones below.

He was lucky enough to land on his feet, if not crouched. He almost felt ill thinking about what the alternative could've been, but there was no time to dwell. In a moment, he was back upright and sprinting out of the alleyway onto the street, abandoning the rooftops for better cover. Passersby might impede his progress, but Weasley wouldn't allow innocents to get hurt. He took off again, nearly slipping in his panic as he rounded a pair of startled shoppers, who clutched their bags to their chests and shrieked as he blew past them.

Gringotts was dead ahead. He needed to make a right here to head for the Apparition point, and that was exactly what he did, flipping over a flower cart that stood in his way, its attendant and the goblins still littering the steps shouting at him as he did so. A second's breath behind him, he heard Weasley curse as he presumably ran into the edge of the stand. Draco took that brief, transitory moment to pause in his stride, withdraw his wand from its holster, and fire off the first spell that came to mind over his shoulder.

Another hitch in Weasley's voice told him he missed. Onlookers screamed, scattering. They fled for shop doors, alleys, any cover they could find, deserting the street that stretched ominously long before him, his destination not yet visible from this distance.

"Stop! You're under arrest!"

A counter sped past Draco's head in one heartstopping beat. He flung his arm behind him once more as he ran, calling out two more spells without even thinking about what they were, just knowing he had to do something, _anything_ , to get Weasley to stop where he was. He didn't even want to think about what was going to happen if he caught up to him…

They continued on, hexes flying back and forth between them, never connecting, but always so close they made Draco go cross-eyed. Back past Eeylops and Fortescue's. Madam Malkin herself stood in her doorway, shouting something unintelligible as they raced by. Draco tried yet another spell just past her shop, praying that the ones that weren't landing weren't catching any of the public by surprise, because that was the last thing he wanted.

"Fuck!"

He heard Weasley cry out, followed by the sound of him stumbling. He chanced a glance behind to find the net he'd charmed had finally been the spell to hit, smacking the redhead full in the chest and sending him toppling backwards onto the ground. Draco silently thanked whoever might be listening for the diversion and beelined for the nearest wall, scrambling back up to the rooftops and continuing on from there. He knew the moment he felt another hex whizzing by him that Weasley had somehow managed to get himself untangled and was still taking chase. He looked behind to see the net out of the corner of his eye, lying in the street in two pieces.

Another set of shingles smashed apart just behind him. He kept running. He fired back, but he kept running. He ran until he thought his lungs might burst, and when he finally reached the point, he scrambled down the wall as fast as the residue on his gloves would carry him. He was wasting time, but his whole body was trembling with excess adrenaline, and he was no longer thinking straight.

He'd made it, though. He'd fucking _made it_. And Weasley _must_ just be one step behind, one step too far to catch him now. He was there, at the spot where the otherwise nondescript lane came to a dead end, and he was spinning around, turning on his heel, the safety and security of Malfoy Manor shimmering in his mind's eye ―

But then no. No no no, bloody _no_ , because Weasley was there, he was _right fucking there_ , and he shouldn't have been, but he was, his hand closing around Draco's wrist as Diagon Alley convulsed and then spun into a cyclone around them. He tried to fight him off, tried to push him away, even as the world went dark, and time and space pressed in at them from all sides, suffocating, and squishing them together as they were propelled through matter itself.

They landed with a deafening thud on the lawn outside his home, their wands rolling away from them across the grass. In one frantic moment, Draco took the time to assess that nothing was in pain, and nothing seemed to be missing. Feeling the weight of Weasley's body on top of him only made him more furious, and he suddenly lashed out, flinging out his arms and beating the man about his head and shoulders until he finally pushed himself off of Draco, rising to his hands and knees above him.

"Are you fucking mad? You could've Splinched us, you idiot!"

Then he stopped. He stopped because he could see Weasley looking around him, at the hedges to their left, the gate on their right, the estate sprawling out ahead, and up to the house beyond. For one fleeting minute, he looked...well, downright terrified. Draco didn't blame him. He'd only been there twice ― once as a captive, the other as a newly-employed Auror on the day they'd raided it for the Dark objects Malfoy senior had collected and issued them their arrest warrants. Weasley couldn't have had many fond memories of the place.

"Wait," he said slowly, confusion seeping into his voice. "This is ― why are we ―"

He looked down again, staring at Draco though the lenses in his mask. Draco squirmed, knowing very well what was surely to come next. Then Weasley reached for it.

Draco didn't even bother to struggle as the mask was removed and tossed aside. There was no use; he was caught. This was the end. The end of all his hard work, everything he'd sacrificed for. It was over. He stared unblinkingly up at Weasley's deep blue eyes, watching as they slowly widened in recognition. He braced himself for the derisive snort, the clock to his jaw he was certain would come.

But then the man smiled, almost disbelievingly. Still out of breath, he huffed around a chuckle ― not one of condescension, but lighthearted, as if in awe.

"It _would_ be you, wouldn't it?"

For several moments, Draco was so in shock, he didn't even realize it. It wasn't until he blinked, Weasley's freckled forehead and orange fringe closer than they'd ever been before ― and then he felt lips against his.

Without a second thought, he reached for him, wrapping his arms around the man's shoulders and pulling him further down. Weasley gasped, breaking them apart as his breath puffed between them, but Draco surged up, tilting his head as he returned the kiss, sliding his tongue between the ginger's lips. He couldn't help but moan when Weasley responded by pressing him further into the ground, one hand pushing Draco's hood back and slipping into his hair.

It was as if they'd been waiting years and years to do this ― and they very well might have.

As suddenly as it had started, it stopped, both of them panting into what little space remained between them. The color of Weasley's eyes had darkened significantly, his pupils dilated in arousal. Draco felt his own blood pumping hot, his insides twisting with desire. He leaned up to press their foreheads together, rolling his hips, delighting in Weasley's responding groan as he felt the other man's ― rather prominent ― reaction rubbing against his own through their layers. Never in a thousand, a _million_ lifetimes did he ever think they'd be here. It made him dizzy, sick, but in a exuberant, erotic way that had his heart nearly leaping out of his throat as he smirked, watching Weasley hesitate, before relaxing and responding in kind, the chase and their fighting forgotten.

"Race you upstairs?"

☠               ☠               ☠

Draco moaned, his back arching off the bed. Teeth scraped the skin at his hip, tugging and biting, tongue following to circle along the groove at the bone. It travelled north ― infuriating and intoxicating all at once ― trailing wet, hot stripes of arousal up to his navel.

They'd managed twice in as many hours, and now it seemed Weasley was attempting to coax him into a third. His mind was willing, but some other parts of him had their objections. Namely that there was only so much the male anatomy could accomplish in such a short span of time ― well that, and after his duel with Backus and the subsequent chase by Weasley himself, his body felt like one giant bruise.

Weasley's ginger mop came into view, and despite himself, Draco melted against him when they met. There always seemed to be little he could do to avoid succumbing to the myriad of emotions this particular man incited in him. Weasley's tongue parted his lips, and Draco moaned again, before pulling back, returning to his senses.

"Aren't they expecting you at work?"

Weasley hummed. "Yes and no. Aurors don't really keep a set schedule. Besides, if anyone _did_ choose to gripe about it, I'd be happy to remind them of just how much overtime I've been clocking these past few months."

"Which, I'm sure, is all my doing."

He couldn't help but smirk at that, to which Weasley laughed, rolling onto his side. Draco followed, facing him, his back groaning in protest even as he did.

"I'd be lying if I said it wasn't. Speaking of," his thumb trailed absentmindedly along Draco's side down to his hip, "I think we skipped over the little matter of me arresting you."

"Oh c'mon, you wouldn't do that now," Draco teased, although his heart sped up a little at the idea. Would he? It had been his assignment all these months to catch the Black Adder, and now he had him ― and Draco didn't want to believe that Weasley would be the type to shag a bloke one moment and put him in chains the next.

He was relieved to hear him confirm his initial thoughts a second later as he said quietly, thoughtfully, "No. No, I don't think I will."

A silence stretched between them, but it didn't feel as heavy as it had times before. Foolish though it may have been, Draco thought they might have come to some sort of understanding. That in itself was progress he'd never believed possible for the two of them ― although if someone had asked him yesterday if he'd ever thought he'd find himself in bed with Weasley, he would've said that wasn't possible either, and here they were.

"However, I _was_ hoping I could ask you to stop leaving your catches on our doorstep. Keep doing what you're doing, sure, but if it could be done with a _minimal_ amount of embarrassment on our part, I'd appreciate it."

Draco feigned offence, although he couldn't help but grin. "I don't question your methods, so what gives you the right to question mine?"

"Oh please, like you don't have anything to do with those articles Parkinson's always writing about us now."

"It's not as if I'm in there every week with my list of grievances and a corrections quill. What she chooses to say about your performance ― or lack thereof ―"

"Oi!"

"― is entirely up to her."

"Alright, I get that, but could you at least think about it? Please? Call it my birthday present."

Weasley flashed him a winning smile, obviously aiming to pass for charming. He wasn't far off the mark.

"It's your birthday?"

"Next Wednesday."

Draco sighed ― and yet he found himself saying, "I'll think about it."

Weasley laughed. "Fair enough. Can I just ask one more thing, though? Why _are_ you doing this? This whole vigilante routine. And no games. If I'm seriously contemplating not turning you in, then I think I deserve to know."

He swallowed, feeling his skin heat under Weasley's gaze. It was a guileless look, and Draco didn't know if he could handle that. Never before had he ever believed he'd have to explain himself to any of them ― to Weasley, or Potter, or Granger, or anyone else outside of his own private circle ― unless, of course, he was doing it in an interrogation room. He hadn't planned for this. Well, he hadn't planned for _anything_ of what had happened since earlier that morning. And yet, now he really looked at Weasley in that moment, his face impassive and open to whatever Draco was about to say, his naked body scarred in more than just metaphorical ways, as Draco's own had been ― he realized that if anyone from the other side of the war were to ever understand, it would probably be him.

"Because I had to do something. I _needed to_ , after everything I'd been a part of. I'd heard about the 'no Death Eaters' policy at the Ministry, and so I knew the Auror department would never have me, and...I don't know. It just seemed like the only other way."

A beat. And then Weasley nodded, something real ― something genuine ― passing behind his eyes.

"Yeah. I can understand that."

Draco suddenly felt the urge to kiss him again. There was a frenzy of emotions in his chest the moment he realized that that was _okay_ now, that was something he was _allowed_ to do, and he reached up, cupping Weasley's jaw as he leaned in.

A moment later, and they'd rolled back, Weasley's broad form pressing him down into the mattress. Draco could hardly catch his breath enough to gasp, but _Merlin_ , when Weasley thrust his hips against him like that, he couldn't stop himself from moaning. His legs came up to wrap around the man's waist completely of their own accord, rocking up into him with renewed enthusiasm. After all, his _mind_ was certainly still willing. He hadn't been fucked like that in...well, he couldn't even recall how long it had been. It had been a long time since he'd even allowed himself a moment with someone like this. His chosen profession didn't provide an easy schedule, and of course he'd always known he couldn't very well tell anyone he was dating what he really did for a living. This, though ― this was different. Weasley knew now, and his days were just as hectic. This… _could_ work, if they wanted it to. The idea seemed absurd in itself ― that he'd even be interested in such a thing with such a person, plus the fact that he knew he was jumping to conclusions ― all they'd done was spend one morning shagging. They weren't about to make this any level of 'official', nor did he want them to. But it was nice, for now. And he enjoyed having that old familiar feeling, once again. The feeling that he didn't want this to end.

Then he felt the sore spot that was forming, right where he'd hit the counter when Backus had shoved him off, and he knew they'd have to leave it for another time.

Draco grabbed a fistful of fiery hair and yanked, their lips breaking apart with a wet pop. He couldn't help but smirk at the heated look that garnered him, followed by that sexy little grin that almost had him changing his mind. For fuck's sake, where had this man been all his life? Alright, that was a stupid question, but nonetheless.

"Don't even think about it. You're lucky you got what you did, after the night I had."

Weasley rolled his eyes, but he was still grinning. "I should probably get going, anyway." With a quick peck, he slipped from the bed, rooting around in the discarded clothing on the floor.

Draco pulled the covers up, already having to fight to keep his eyes open. "I hope you won't take offence if I don't walk you to the door. I don't think I'll be able to move again for twenty-four hours, at least."

"Don't worry, I actually take that as a compliment."

Rubbing a weary hand over his face, he flipped Weasley a finger with the other, smiling to himself at the man's responding laugh.

"I could call Noorey to see you out, if you'd like." At that questioning look, he realized what he'd said, and wished he could kick himself. "My house-elf," he added, trying not to sound _too_ sheepish.

A flicker of outrage passed over Weasley's face. "Wait, you still keep an elf? I was joking all those times I said ―"

"It's not what you think. He's free, I just...can't seem to be rid of him, is all."

Seemingly placated, he quirked a small smile, although his brows furrowed in curiosity. "Ah. Well, that's alright, I think I'll Floo home first. Freshen up a bit."

"Probably a wise choice."

Now dressed again, Weasley fidgeted at the side of the bed for a moment, chewing his lower lip. Draco watched him in confusion, until he realized what he must be thinking. Lifting a hand, he beckoned him over, and the redhead was still smiling as he bent to give him a final kiss goodbye.

"You know," he started as he pulled back, blue eyes staring honestly down at him. "We don't necessarily care about that whole Death Eater thing anymore. In the Auror department. I mean, sure, if Yaxley showed up looking for his old job back, we'd first ask him how the hell he'd gotten out of his cell, and then we'd immediately kick his sorry arse back in it. But with you...I think all you've done this past year is proof enough that you've come over from the other side. It's the higher-ups who want you jailed for how you've made us look, not us regular stiffs. We did at first, but a lot of us have come around lately, believe me. So if you were ever inclined to hang up your cape, I'm sure the squad would be happy to have you."

Draco blinked, feeling his stomach flip over at those words. He nodded to show he understood, but even after he'd watched Weasley disappear through the fireplace across the room, and he was laying his head back against the pillow and giving himself over to the sleep he so desperately needed, he couldn't help but wonder: was that really true?


	9. Chapter 9

"Wait, wait, wait! Hold on, mate, we can talk about this!"

Draco crouched on the roof of Gringotts Bank, a rope held tight in his gloved hands. On the other end, one of Carrow's thugs dangled in the breeze, his feet tied up and hanging just over the edge. Far, far beneath his head was the hard, stone ground. With his wand already lying down below, there was nothing he could do but swing there pitifully and hope the Black Adder was bluffing.

"The only thing I want to hear out of your mouth is the location of Carrow's hideout."

The man huffed, snot running from his nose as he shook his head vehemently. "I ― I can't. You have to understand, he'll kill me ―"

"I think you should be more concerned with whether or not _I'm_ going to kill you _right now_." Of course, he _was_ bluffing ― but he was also growing impatient. He allowed the rope to slip another inch, and the man's screams echoed through the streets of Diagon. "Where is he?"

"Alright! Alright, I'll talk! I'll talk!"

With a smirk of satisfaction, Draco reached down and yanked him up by the front of his shirt.

☠               ☠               ☠

"Right. I think that just might do it."

Draco looked up from his stool at the other end of the workstation.

"Really?"

Blaise was smiling ― _actually_ smiling. The cauldron he'd been tending to had finally stopped burping. It had been nothing but a nuisance since they'd switched off an hour ago. Now it sat quiet, perfectly still. Draco pushed away from the counter and strode over, leaning around the man to peer down into it. For a moment, he thought it was empty, and was two seconds away from calling his friend a raving lunatic ― until he noticed it. The liquid, swirling just the slightest bit under the lip of the pot, as clear, calm, and serene as freshly-tempered glass.

"Yes. It's the right color, right consistency. I think we might've just pulled this off. Imagine that."

Draco checked their notes, scribbled over the stretch of parchment laid out on the counter next to them. His heart beat a new rhythm. Yes, this might be it. Over a month of trial and error, and brewing and rebrewing all day and night, and ― this might be it.

"Only one way to find out."

Blaise picked a ladle off the rack on the wall, dipping it into the potion and coming back out with the tiniest drop. Draco's glance shifted from it up to his face, looking skeptical.

"You think so? What if ―"

"I really do believe we've done it, Draco. I wouldn't be making the suggestion if I thought it might be harmful."

There could've been a joke at _Mrs._ Zabini's expense hiding in there somewhere, but he ignored the urge. A deep, encouraging breath in, and he was reaching out, grasping the handle of the spoon and bringing it to his lips.

And nearly coughed it back up before it managed to slither down his throat. Merlin, it burned ― like ten shots of Firewhiskey at once. Like an acid, searing him from the inside out. He covered his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut.

"No good?"

" _Vulgar_ , actually." He felt a bit queasy, if he was really being honest, but he managed to keep the contents of his stomach where they were for the time being.

Then, all of sudden, he could've sworn he felt ― _lighter_. As if there'd been a shift in gravity, or he'd dropped three stone in the past minute. He looked down to find with a start that his hands had disappeared. Nothing but a straight shot to the floor beneath where they should've been. The phenomenon crept up his arms, banishing the sight of his jumper sleeves inch by inch, to his shoulders, then across his chest, his legs, and presumably his head ― because when he looked up again, he saw Blaise staring at him, obviously impressed.

"Well, it's safe to say you're invisible, so that's a start. Go on, then."

They'd padded his rec room in Blaise's Security Systems for just this occasion. Heart hammering in his chest, Draco crossed the room towards it. There'd been a couple misses in weeks past ― tests they'd run with previous unsuccessful batches, on specially-designed Familiars so as not to run the risk of potentially ending the life of anything actually living. Most of them hadn't even been able to make it through the door. There'd been one, just a few nights ago, where they'd thought they'd _almost_ done it. Still, when it had rematerialized minutes later, they'd discovered it had only made it about three inches inside.

Draco stretched his arm out, reaching just past the doorway, grimacing, bracing for the sudden influx of noise, and ―

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

No shrieking, no strobing lights. Nothing. He could hardly breathe. Bloody hell, they'd done it, they'd really done it!

He dashed into the room, bubbles of excitement bursting in his stomach. He twirled on the spot, caring little for how ridiculous he might look at the moment ― it wasn't like anyone could see him, anyway. To be absolutely certain, he made a quick circuit of the room, skirting exercise equipment and waving his hands in front of each System hanging on the walls. Pumping his arms over his head, he gave a whoop of triumph.

Then nearly tumbled backwards as the alarms all suddenly went off at once. For a brief second, he thought _he'd_ done that. Until he turned around to see a terribly anxious Noorey, practically shaking in the middle of the room.

"Master Draco, I ― what the bloody bollocks is ―"

They cut off with a wave of Blaise's wand.

"We're in the middle of an experiment, Noorey, if you don't mind," Draco heard him explaining kindly as the screaming gradually reduced to nothing but a dull ringing.

Noorey stroked his hands over his long, pointy ears, looking shameful, if not a bit pained. "Oh, of course, my apologies. Just popping in to see if you two were wanting dinner. Where _is_ Master Draco, anyway?"

"I think that's rather the point, Noorey."

"He's by the punching bag, apparently."

"Well, _of course_ they're going to know where I am if I _speak_."

"Just reminding you, since you've always been so fond of running your mouth."

"Dinner would be lovely, Noorey, thank you," Draco interjected loudly, despite Blaise's snickering. The elf popped back out of the room, doing little to cover up his own laughter.

Draco returned to the laboratory just as the effects of the potion began to fade. He flexed his fingers, watching with fascination as they gradually shimmered back into view.

"You only took the absolute smallest amount, so that's to be expected," Blaise was saying as he rejoined him by the workbench.

"Well, I won't need it _too_ long, will I? Just enough to catch Carrow by surprise."

"Yes, but it's still a fast-acting potion. You'll need to be quick about your entry. And we'll want to run another test after we eat, just to be sure it was Noorey, and not you, who'd set them off that time."

Draco nodded to show he understood, reaching for a test tube.

"You know, Noorey told me something rather amusing the other night."

"Did he?"

"Yes indeed. He says you had a guest over last week. A Mr. Weasley?"

Salazar, he must've gone red from head to toe in an instant. He was really wishing he was still invisible in that moment. Instead, he tried to pretend nothing was amiss, ladling a healthy scoop of potion into the tube in his hand.

It was strange, to be true, to know he'd ended up sharing his bed with the Auror who was supposed to be investigating his case. Although, there'd never been anything _completely_ normal about their lives, let alone their relationship with one another, had there? They hadn't seen each other since. Somehow, Draco knew that wasn't a bad sign. He'd been busy brewing and preparing for his attack on Carrow, and Weasley had probably been his normal hectic self at the Ministry. Despite what they may or may not have thought about each other over the years, he knew Weasley wasn't the type to shag a bloke and run. What had shocked Draco more than anything was that he was _hoping_ he wouldn't ― and yet, he didn't really know what he wanted out of the whole thing himself. He knew he'd enjoyed himself. More than. He knew he'd been attracted to the man for longer than he could even remember, and he'd always wondered what it would be like, if he ever got the chance. But it _was_ strange. They'd hated each other for a long time, and they'd just started to feel differently. Was he ready for them to maybe be something more? He wanted to be, but he didn't know if he really was. Merlin, to think he was actually contemplating a second date with Ron Weasley, of all people.

"Look, I know it's none of my business ― but on a serious note: do you really think it's wise to be carrying on an affair with one of the very people who could throw you in jail for all this?"

And that very same person had told him they'd _happily_ welcome him onto their team after all he'd done. The thought had been creeping up on him at the most inopportune moments since he'd heard those words, and every time he squashed it down ― as he did now.

"You said so yourself. I couldn't possibly keep this up forever." Blaise didn't appear to have caught the facetiousness in his tone. Trying for a kind smile, he went on, "Weasley isn't anything to worry about. He said he'd keep my secret, on the condition that I stop leaving their 'gifts' right on the doorstep for all to see."

There was a pregnant pause.

"And...so you're plan is...to do that anyway?"

Draco smirked, smacking a stopper down into the tube.

"Naturally."

Because, really ― when had he ever done as Ronald Weasley asked?

☠               ☠               ☠

It was approximately seven a.m. on the morning of March first when Draco sat perched on a Muggle's roof, watching the sun come up. The 'big day' had arrived; Carrow's headquarters sat a stone's throw away from his current location. They'd come to expect him in the middle night ― he'd decided he fancied seeing what they'd do if he caught them first thing. It certainly helped to find himself in familiar surroundings.

Spinner's End. Why the hell had they chosen Spinner's End? Muggles everywhere, the house they now occupied having once belonged to a man who'd done everything in his power to see their previous leader fail.

Why? Because they didn't think anyone would come looking there ― that's why.

An elderly Muggle woman could be seen walking her dog, enjoying the early morning air, but she paid Draco no mind as he passed her by. He'd already taken the potion, and he doubted she'd even suspected a thing.

Draco had been in the Snape house several times throughout his childhood, the man himself having maintained a somewhat strained friendship with his parents after their time together as Death Eaters during the first war. He'd hazard a guess he knew more about its ins and outs and its secret pathways than anyone else still living ― no one would've ever called him a dutiful son, at least not in some aspects, and he'd allowed his curiosity to get the best of him more times than not. Finding himself, at one point, trapped inside a hidden storeroom for nearly an hour hadn't even managed to teach him a lesson. Well, he'd never been anything if not stubborn.

In short, he knew the Muggles in the neighborhood were barely aware of the house's existence, so it had been left empty following Snape's demise, and thus it should be laid out much the same as before. Therefore, Draco wasn't going to be able to open the passageway leading to the upstairs bedroom without attracting attention. So he had one shot at this, and he had to make it count.

The Familiar he'd sent in earlier had informed him of three key things: one, there were indeed new wards placed on the house, the originals having died along with its previous owner; two, there were a total of four recruits to avoid in the lower level; and three, Carrow was upstairs, completely alone. He couldn't have arranged them more perfectly himself.

He entered by way of smashing the window in the downstairs loo. The potion aided him when it came to getting blocked by the wards; he passed right through them as if he was a ghost. Every door in the first floor of the home was still concealed behind the bookshelves in the main room from Snape's time there, and they were thick enough that he didn't expect anyone to hear the glass break.

The door he opened just a crack, peeking his head out to have a look around. So it really had been left alone all this time. Same furniture, same wall-to-wall bookshelves, all of it. It made Draco's heart swell with unneeded emotion to see it, but he shook it off, focusing on the task at hand.

Only three of the men remained, one having stepped out front for a smoke. The second slumped, snoring, in an armchair, the last two playing a rousing game of Exploding Snap at the other end. He pushed it a little more, just enough for him to slip his slender frame through, closing it carefully behind him. Dumb sods didn't even look up. He made it across the room without arousing any suspicion.

Right. He had all of a few minutes left before the potion would wear off, and he couldn't rely on their stupidity for long. He needed to get the door open and seal himself inside the passage before they were any the wiser. One wrong move, and they would quickly realize they weren't alone. Now, if only he could remember the pattern…

The bookshelf sat in front of him, laden with mountains of text ― mostly potion recipes and stuff about the Dark arts, some on wizarding history. He knew the only way to reveal the door was to pull out three particular books in the correct sequence. In all of his strategizing for this day, he'd assumed he would've remembered it the second he'd looked at the shelf. Now that he was standing there, he found himself at a loss. He tried to recall the last time he'd seen his former professor standing there, his long fingers prying each from their carefully constructed placements. He could see him, he could see the colors of the spines, but he couldn't see the bloody titles!

"Alright, Martin?"

Draco spun around to see the pair on the floor had come to a pause in their game. One of them had popped his head up and was glancing about the room with a curious expression.

"Thought I heard footsteps just now. Did you?"

The first bloke laughed. "Black Adder news giving you the jitters again?"

"No, really, I swear I did!"

"Oh yeah? Where, then?"

"Over by the bedroom door, I think."

Alright, he had at most half a minute before they decided to come investigate. He could do this. He needed a red one first, then a… _blue_ , he was pretty sure it was. It started with...with...There! One shelf below the top: _The Hag's Guide to Home Brewing_. Then _Dark Spells and the Wizards Who Use Them_. And...? C'mon, c'mon. And… _Advanced Potion Making_! Of course!

"Alright then, scaredy-cat, let's go have a look."

Two Stunning Spells slammed into them both with an effortless couple flicks of his wrist. As soon as their bodies hit the floor, alarms started wailing. For a moment, Draco thought the wards had gone off, and he was thoroughly confused, as he could see by looking down that his potion was still in effect. It was then that he noticed the flashing collars around their necks. Probably triggered by them losing consciousness. Bloody hell. He hadn't counted on that.

The noise had already roused the third occupant, and he was getting to his feet, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with one hand while the other reached for the wand in his pocket. Draco moved as fast as he could, yanking back the top corners of each of the three books in turn, the shelf miraculously sliding to the side to reveal the archway beyond. Before the other man could figure out what had happened, he was standing at the foot of the winding staircase inside and slamming the shelf back into place behind him, throwing up a series of protective enchantments that even a seasoned Curse-Breaker would have some difficulty bringing down.

"Carrow! Sir! Are you alright up there?"

The sound of the man banging against the bookshelf, trying to break through, followed Draco's ascent to the second level. If Carrow heard his charge's cries, he didn't choose to answer them.

The bedroom was just as Draco'd remembered it. Not overly large, but not too small either. A queen-sized bed at one wall, a desk and chair at the other, a beige, threadbare rug inbetween. The only difference was the thick, black curtains drawn over the only window ― and Amycus Carrow's sorry arse standing at its center, his wand poised for defense.

"I know you're there, Mr. 'Black Adder'. Have been patiently awaiting your arrival, in fact."

Draco knew the clock was ticking. He had to move quickly ― and he had to, of course, get out of the doorway, the most obvious spot for him to be standing right now. He circled his target, taking care to step as lightly as possible.

"I'd wondered when you might try again. To be honest, you took a bit longer than I'd initially expected."

Carrow's head didn't turn as he moved. Good. His ears didn't even appear to perk up. Draco smirked to himself. Very good.

The first shot knocked the elder man back with significant force, flipping him over the bed and into the nightstand beyond. He groaned where he lay, struggling to get back to his feet ― and just when he did, Draco hit him again, smacking him down flat. But it seemed Carrow was as persistent as he, because he was soon back at it, pulling himself up by the bedcovers, firing off several rounds of his own. Draco dodged them with ease, spinning into the furthest corner as they ricocheted off the empty portrait of Eileen Prince above the desk. He knew he could've just Stunned Carrow and avoided this conflict completely, but that would've been too easy. After everything he had done, Draco wanted this to hurt.

The shouts from downstairs intensified as they danced around each other, charming at will. By the sound of it, the final of the four members present had joined the one left in the den, but they'd still not managed to surpass Draco's own wards. He sent a silent apology up to Snape and his late mother as her frame rattled and eventually crashed down off its nail altogether, but he was grateful for the upper hand he seemed to have in the duel. Of course, he'd expected as much ― he was _invisible_ , after all. A Jelly-Legs nearly pulled Carrow's feet out from under him, but he corrected it with a counter, following up rather smoothly with an enraged _Crucio_ that Draco avoided like the plague. His heart nearly beat out his chest as he ducked behind the other side of the bed. Obviously, he hadn't expected Carrow to muck about ― but bloody _hell_. He rose to his feet once more, preparing for an _Incarcerous_ that he never ended up completing.

"Ah-ha! Got you!"

Shit. He didn't have to look down to know the potion had finally come to the end of its run; the sickly feeling in his stomach had vanished, and his hands no longer tingled. He had about two seconds to react before Carrow made his move, and it wasn't enough. A moment later, he was hanging a foot from the floor, stars bursting behind his eyelids as his head and back slammed hard against the wall.

The room felt like it was closing in on him. His throat was being forced shut by an unseen hand, another pushing into his chest with all the brawn of a giant. He gasped, choked even on the sound. He couldn't breathe. His blood was pumping loud, like rushing water, in his ears. He couldn't _fucking_ breathe, could barely move ― could do nothing but claw at the wallpaper and panic.

"Silly little boy. Now, I find myself asking yet again: I do very much wonder what, exactly, you look like under there."

Carrow crossed slowly over to him, taking his time, his own breathing still labored from the fight. He stood before him, all grins, his yellowed teeth barred in an expression that made shivers run the length of Draco's spine. This close, he could see the dark purple blister marring Carrow's left cheek from where the Adder venom had hit last time around.

He didn't have enough air left to scream when the man first struck him. Another Cruciatus Curse, he'd expected. He didn't know if he would've survived it, with his lungs already rapidly losing oxygen as it was, but he'd expected it. What he _hadn't_ expected was to feel a fist surging into the front of his mask, bouncing his head off the wall behind.

Carrow came at him again a second later. And again. And _again_. Never allowing him even a moment's reprieve, he continued on and on, hammering into him over and over, long after he felt the cartilage in his nose shatter, his teeth nearly bit his tongue clean off, and blood rushed like a spout from the wreckage. The only thing that saved him from blacking out was that Carrow's magic wavered with each blow, loosening the grip on his throat.

The final hit came in so hot it cracked his mask straight in half. Draco finally sucked in a full breath as it wiggled, then fell from his face with a clatter, revealing him from his nostrils down. He spat blood from his mouth, hearing more than seeing Carrow's reaction, as it must've landed on him. He could hardly open his eyes, but he could breathe again. From that very first day of his planning, with the Weasley in the coffee shop, he'd promised himself he wouldn't let Carrow get one over on him a second time. He'd been caught off guard for a moment, that much was clear. But as breath returned to his lungs, so did his sense to his brain ― and he knew a good chance when he saw one.

"Fuck off, Carrow."

"I'm sorry? What was that?"

"I said… _Viperae morsum_!"

Carrow shrieked like a dying cat, tumbling away. Draco sunk back down to his feet, gulping on air. While his enemy rolled, sobbing, on the rug, he tore at what remained of his mask, at the drawstring on his cloak, flinging them both aside. He rubbed his fingers over his throat, banishing the spell that altered his voice; he had no use for it now. His very nerves on fire, he stalked across the room, retrieving his wand from where it lay as he passed, to shove the end of his steel-toed boot into Carrow's side.

"Didn't learn the last time, you stupid twat? Huh?"

He kicked him again. And again. He kicked him till Carrow coughed, and blood splattered the carpet, and even then he didn't stop, not till the older man had managed to snatch up his wand and throw a hex over his shoulder, catching Draco in the stomach and sending him careening backwards onto his arse. There, he bounced back as quickly as possible, poised for action, to find Carrow struggling to get up himself. And when he did, the look that crossed his face only infuriated Draco further.

"My, my, my. So it is you. Draco Malfoy."

The blond scowled. The urge to smother _Carrow_ until he ceased to breathe was overwhelming.

"You know, I had a feeling."

He'd known the moment they'd met that first night ― of that, Draco had been absolutely certain. Why he hadn't killed him then and there when he'd had the chance, he knew he'd never understand.

"Why are you doing this, Draco? We were your friends, at one time. Why would you betray us like this, why would you side with the people who've been against us all from the beginning? They don't want what's best for pure-blood kind, surely you can see that. Your father knew what we had to do to ensure our race's survival. I know you know it, too."

"I'm not my father."

"We _took care of you_ , Draco ― did we not?"

"You ruined my life!"

For the first time, Draco suspected he was witnessing Carrow in actual shock. He jumped a little at his words, as if the force of them had been tangible enough to slap him across the face.

"You, and the others, and your precious 'Dark Lord'! You _ruined_ it! You ran around with your _idiotic_ ideas about race and status, and you roped my parents into it, and had them drag me in with them without ever even _asking_ how _I_ felt about it! And now I can't even do something as simple as attend a fucking _party_ without having three quarters of the room hovering over me, wondering if I'm about to poison the punch!" Crimson spittle flew from his lips, his hands trembling at his sides. "I may have acted like I agreed with you and my parents and your disgusting 'morals'. I assure you, I was just doing what I had to do to get through each day still breathing. You can twist it up any which way you like, but trust me, _they_ are not the enemy. They are not the terrorists. _You_ are, Carrow. You. Are."

The look on Carrow's face was skeptical, if not disturbed. Draco felt a fresh batch of motivation flooding his veins. Oh yes. This was going to feel _good_.

"And I will see you in Azkaban for all you've done, or I will see you dead. It's up to you."

A moment of tense silence passed between them. Draco wasn't fool enough to think Carrow would choose to come with him quietly. He gripped the handle of his wand tight, ready for whatever came his way. And when the man finally raised his own, seething, his mouth opening on a shout, Draco wasn't but a second behind him.

" _Cruci_ ―"

" _Stupe_ ―"

And then, suddenly, the house shook with the strength of an earthquake.

Their magic collided in the middle of the room, sending them both flying apart. Draco swore as his shoulder and cheek crumpled against the wall. There was ringing in his ears, and his vision blurred for a moment, but his head was still clear enough to know _they_ hadn't done that.

The shouts of Carrow's men downstairs had turned to screams, followed by the blasting of spells. Their voices were replaced with more resilient ones, barking orders with military precision. Draco could think of only one group they would have belonged to.

No! No, he would not let the Aurors take credit for this one! If it was the last thing he did as the Black Adder, exposed as he was now, then so be it. He would not allow Carrow to escape, and he would not flee himself, leaving him to be captured by the likes of them. The former Death Eater was startled by the invasion, looking around him in mounting terror as the room appeared to rock on its foundation, and Draco took the shot.

When Carrow fell, unconscious, to the floor, the blond felt a wave of triumph like never before. There were many members in this new order, and probably other leaders ― Carrow being but one. But he was about to wipe one nasty bit of scum from the streets today, and that was good enough for now in his book.

He could hear the group downstairs attempting to break through the bookcase. He worked fast, binding and gagging Carrow and dragging his substantial weight up into his arms. A blink and a twist, and they were on their way, just as a crash sounded at the bottom of the stairs.

Diagon Alley was waking up bright and early, as per usual. This time, Draco had come prepared. He reached under the collar of his jumpsuit and withdrew a silver chain. From it hung an Adder Coin, shining golden and brilliant in the early morning sunshine. After the last time, he'd promised himself he'd never leave home without one, and this had been the best way he could think of.

One flip, the magic words, and they were racing past the shops like they were made of wind, landing smoothly at the Ministry's front door. Draco dropped Carrow where he stood, relishing the crack of the old man's bones on the pavement, paying little mind to the shrieks of passersby. Panting, he collapsed beside him, his back bowing as he stretched his aching limbs over the steps.

He didn't know how long he laid there. The streets around him were chaos ― from what he could hear through the pounding of his own heart, anyway. There were Ministry workers rushing all around him, calling for order, while shopkeepers and patrons alike swarmed on the outskirts. He even thought he might've heard Pansy or Blaise's voice, before they were ordered back. No one touched him. He wasn't sure why, until he heard a woman explain to another that they were waiting for the Aurors. He didn't have the energy to tell her the Aurors were probably a bit tied up themselves at the moment. Then he heard them. He knew it was them by the way the sea of shadows and outlines of figures parted, the way a gradual silence spread across the crowd. It wasn't until an incredulous freckled face and a head of ginger hair came into view, haloed by the rising sun, that the will to move returned to him.

"Draco?"

"Happy birthday?" He tried to smile through the blood drying around his teeth. It was easier once he saw Weasley's eyes light up, a surprised laugh spilling from his lips.

"Some fucking birthday. You look like shit."

"I can safely say you're not lying this time."

It pained him in a way he couldn't understand at the time to see Weasley's smile falter, his expression clouding. "We ― we found the mask back there, and I knew...I was hoping you weren't...Are you alright?" He reached out his hand, and Draco took it gladly, allowing him to pull him up into a sitting position.

Before he could reply, suddenly a pair of Aurors charged them, yanking him out of Weasley's grip and onto his feet. A couple of rookies; he could tell by the badges on their robes. His wrists were spelled together behind his back, and they each took ahold of his elbows. He couldn't have mustered the ability to struggle if he'd wanted to.

"Oi! Go easy on him there, go easy!"

They marched him inside without another word. Past the checkpoint, in a Floo, through the Atrium, and down the lift to a small, white room with one barred and warded exit, a two-way mirror in place of a window beside it. There, they dropped him into a chair, making sure his arms slid around the back of it, keeping him in place ― and left. Their Healer came in some time later, and did as thorough an examination as she could under the circumstances ― shining a light in his eyes, checking for broken bones, even resetting his nose and siphoning the blood off his face despite his continued insistence he was fine. It must've been at least an hour that he sat there after that, alone, with nothing but thoughts of what was going to happen to him now to console him ― of which they did little.

"Well, well. Malfoy. Wasn't sure I'd ever have to see you here again."

Then suddenly, the door opened, and a very familiar figure stepped inside.

There was nothing to sufficiently describe the amount of shame he felt, sitting there in an interrogation room, his hands tied behind his back, with Harry Potter standing at the other side of the table, staring down at him. If he thought that was bad enough, he was soon corrected, as Granger and Weasley filed in after him a moment later. And Merlin's beard, Granger was all smiles ― a look he'd seen her wear before. It hadn't turned out well for him then. He wasn't yet sure if it would this time. She settled into the single chair across from him, slapping a file down on the tabletop, while the two men stood flanking her. The only person who seemed apologetic about all this was Weasley, who tried his best to reassure him with every glance. It didn't work. Now that his head was a little clearer, he was uncomfortably aware that the last time he'd seen Weasley, it had been in his bed. And now here they were again ― an Auror and a vigilante. Draco hated the way the very sight of Weasley made his stomach flood with butterflies, even now. He could barely look him in the eye.

"We'd been planning that raid for months," Granger began after enough time had passed to make him antsy. "All the Muggles that had to be corralled and Obliviated. Had we known you were intending on doing the same today, we might've tried to go in a bit sooner. But here we are. You managed to get there long before any of us did, as has been for months now, it seems. You took out two of Carrow's men with what appeared to be little effort, and you made off with the leader himself, all on your own. Not to mention the wards we assume _you_ had barred the entry with, considering the state we found his other two men in when we arrived. That one has to be my personal favorite."

For a moment there, Draco thought he knew just where she was going with this. Then he was suddenly taken by complete surprise.

With a wave of Potter's hand, the charm on his wrists broke. He pulled his arms forward, rubbing the soreness out of them, suppressing a groan at the relief his muscles rejoiced in.

"You've been a thorn in our side for some time now, that much is true ― but you've also been an undeniable asset to the community. Your skills are impressive, from spellwork to recon to martial arts. If you would agree to it," she withdrew a stack of forms and a quill from the packet, turning it all around to face him, "we would love to have you on the team."

He froze, his breath catching in his throat. He had to be hearing things, if he thought Granger was saying what she seemed to be saying. Yet, the parchment laid before him read **NEW HIRE PAPERWORK** at the top, and he couldn't understand what that meant, he just couldn't fucking understand that.

"Sorry. Are you...offering me a job right now?" He looked around at all their smiling faces, his stomach flipping over. "What the hell's going on?"

"They're offering you _my_ job, Draco."

"What?!"

It might've been the blows he'd taken to the head earlier that morning, but he couldn't understand the words coming out of Weasley's mouth. And the fact that he was still _smiling_ as he said them. That couldn't be true, that couldn't _possibly_ be true. Weasley may have been haggard these last few months ― mostly because of him, he knew ― but he was a good Auror. A damn good Auror. He'd been observing them all pretty regularly over the couple years he'd been training and putting his plans into action, and he knew they were all excellent at their jobs, despite what else he might've let others believe while he'd gone about his business as the Black Adder. None of them deserved to lose their jobs just for him.

"Are you _sacking_ him?"

"I wouldn't call it sacking, no," Potter piped up. "I'd say it's more like...making a trade."

"No." Draco shook his head, vehement in his refusal. "No no no, you can't. You can't do that, can you?" He looked to Weasley ― hoping, much to this own surprise, that they would stop this charade, reveal their game, and say that no, they were in fact sending him off to Azkaban after all. "Why would they do that?"

"Because you've proven yourself _more than_ worthy. Of course, we won't force you into anything you don't want, but we'd much prefer us all working _together_ , rather than against each other."

This didn't make any sense. No sense at all. Why did Weasley look so bloody happy about this? All Draco could do was continue to say 'no', over and over, until Granger finally got to her feet, crossing to the door with Potter on her tail.

"We'll let you two talk this over."

As soon as the door shut behind them, Draco was on his feet, meeting Weasley around the side of the table. The redhead reached for his hands, holding them firm, while he continued to try his hardest to process what was happening. He felt like he'd gone mad. There was an offer of employment waiting for him on the table, from Granger and Potter, no less! And Weasley was...fired, or resigning, he didn't know which at this point, but he didn't like it. Whatever was going on, whatever might've been brewing between them since last week, since who knew when before that, he didn't want this, had never wanted this!

"Is it because ― is it because we ―"

"No, no, it has nothing to do with that, trust me." Weasley shook his head, chuckling in that sexy way of his ― which he had absolutely no right to be doing now, no right at all! "I turned in my notice just after they brought you in."

"But you're an excellent duelist!" Draco exclaimed, as if that should explain it all. "I should know!"

"That may be, but that does not a proper Auror make. I've had a long time to think about it. This job just isn't for me. George has been trying to get me to come run the shop with him since I graduated, and I figured, what better time than now?" He sighed, but it wasn't an exasperated sound. More a relieved one. Draco understood that even less than the rest. "Look, they'd been planning on making the offer if they ever caught you for a few weeks now, regardless ― all I did was provide them an available partner for you."

"You can't do this. _They_ can't do this. I'm not. I can't. Not with what I've ―"

He saw the recognition in Weasley's eyes before it happened. Then, in a flash, he'd pushed up the left sleeve of Draco's suit, revealing the faded tattoo beneath. It was an ugly, disgraceful thing. The very sight of it made him want to retch.

"Look at this. Look at it!" Weasley shoved Draco's own arm in his face, and he didn't know why there were tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, but he knew he hated each and every one of them. "This isn't who you are anymore. You've proven that, and then some. You said you wanted to be on the force, at one time, didn't you? Well, here's your opportunity."

It couldn't be true. They had to be tricking him. That's what he thought initially ― but then he suddenly found himself asking...why was that the first thing to come to his mind? Did he really believe the fact that he'd once been a Death Eater ― totally against his will, of course ― was enough to make him completely worthless to the wizarding world as a whole? No, he didn't. If he really did, he wouldn't have become the Black Adder to begin with.

"So, what d'you say?"

He looked down at the form again, his brain churning. Granger and Potter had never been deceitful to him before, no matter what he'd ever said or done to them. Why would they be now? And Weasley ― they had a better relationship than that now, didn't they? He _had_ to be telling him the truth. And if that was the case…

He blinked. He thought. He knew he'd need more of an explanation at some point, but it had been a crazy morning. Could he let that go for now? He looked to Weasley once more, feeling warmth spread through his chest at the sincere smile he saw there. Yeah, he probably could.

Thus, the choice was laid before him: become an Auror, or go back to living as a regular man, because he was positive he couldn't go on as the Black Adder after this. He'd always wanted to help people ― since the war, it had been his driving force. He could do it much better as an Auror. But everything about the Black Adder ― it was his baby. His dream for the past couple years. Was he willing to throw that all away?

He blinked. He thought.

He decided.


	10. Epilogue

It was a hot August afternoon, and Weasley's Wizard Wheezes was busier than ever. Customers had been pouring in since they'd opened; only recently had it begun to thin out. The Hogwarts Express would be setting off for the start of the new term in just a week's time, and kids were trying to see how many Dungbombs and Fanged Frisbees they could sneak past their parents into their trunks. George hadn't looked this happy in years. Coin rolling in, and his younger brother at his side. Ron had to admit, they were living the dream.

"Heading to lunch, George!"

"Say hello to Malfoy for me!" his brother returned, winking at him from behind the counter. Ron rolled his eyes, chuckling as he skirted a gaggle of kids by the Pygmy Puffs and headed out into the street, excitement bubbling in the pit of his stomach.

Le Fay was packed, as usual. They'd recently come out with a line of flavored lemonades and iced teas, and with temperatures rising, everyone and their mother was clambering for them. Ron had never been into stuff like that himself, but with all the rave reviews, he figured what the hell, why not try it.

He was glad to see that Olivia was still gainfully employed at the Ministry checkpoint. She smiled as she always did while scanning his wand, both of them laughing when she corrected herself after automatically greeting him as 'Auror Weasley'. To tell the truth, the change in title had taken a bit of getting used to for him as well. It was nostalgic walking through the Atrium, boarding the lift bound for Level Two, nodding as he passed by old friends and coworkers with jovial shouts of 'Alright, Weasley?' and 'How's the joke business, Weasley?'.

The DMLE had installed a gym down the back hallway, so their Aurors could keep up with their routine even while on-the-job. It was there Ron stopped, hanging by the door, a grin tugging at one corner of his mouth.

Draco Malfoy posed on a mat across the room, fists raised in readiness. Neville came at him with a jab that he dodged with breathtaking ease, returning the favor with a smooth roundhouse kick to the knees, taking his legs out from under him and sending the stockier man to the flat of his back. A few new recruits stood attentively by, their eyes wide as they looked on. Malfoy straightened up, smirking from ear to ear as his partner conceded. He wiped the sweat from his brow, glancing up to see Ron standing there, and the redhead felt his heart skip a beat.

"Right. Break time," Neville called to the trainees after getting back to his feet. "We'll pick this up tomorrow."

"Thought you could use a refresher," Ron told him when Malfoy approached, slinging a towel over his shoulders. The blond took the Ravenclaw Blueberry Iced Tea he handed him with an eyebrow raised in curiosity. He wrinkled his nose after his first sip, and Ron couldn't help but laugh, because yeah, he had to agree.

"Great session today, Malfoy. If you fought like that on the streets, I can see why all the thugs were so scared of you. Must be nice not to have to wear that get-up anymore, though, isn't it?"

Ron didn't hear Malfoy's response to Neville's comment, because the blond was giving him a sidelong glance, and he was trying his best not to get red in the face. Little did anyone know, Carrow's arrest _hadn't_ been the last time he'd donned his signature costume ― a fact both of their beds were all too familiar with. 'Auror Weasley' sounded rather sinful indeed from those lips when he was in the right mood.

The three of them closed up the gym once the recruits had left, walking down the corridor while Malfoy mused about where they should grab lunch after he got out of the showers. It was only when the man paused in his stride that Ron realized he'd been staring. Malfoy looked at him quizzically, seeing right through him in a way only he'd ever been able to accomplish. Ron cleared his throat, feeling his heart attempting to beat its way out of his chest. Neville had ended up several paces ahead of them, caught up in conversation with one of the new kids who'd stayed behind to wait for him. Now was probably as good a time as any.

"Did you mean what you said this morning?"

Malfoy chuckled ― a breathy little thing on the cusp of a startled smile. "Yeah. Yeah, I did. I've talked to Noorey about it, and he understands, he'll figure it out. And anyway, it's not like I need that huge place anymore, so there's no reason not to. I expect you'll clean the place up a good deal more before I get there, but ―"

Merlin, Ron wanted to kiss him in that moment. He watched Malfoy trail off, his brow crinkling further.

"What?"

Ron licked his lips, his blood pulsing hot in his veins from more than just the summer air as he watched Malfoy follow his tongue's movement with his eyes.

"C'mere."

Nothing in his life could've ever prepared him for what this was like. In school, when he'd wanted to beat himself up every time he had a lingering thought about the shape of Malfoy's arse, the length of his slender legs, it had never occurred to him that those would be things he'd come to know well. That the press of the man's lips against his own would have become something comfortingly familiar. That he would be thrilled by the little moan Malfoy gave as he wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him close.

"Oi! Save it for when we're _out_ of the office, yeah?"

Ron felt Malfoy's free hand lift from where it had been gripping his bicep. He didn't even have to open his eyes to know he was giving Neville his famous salute.

They were quite a pair, weren't they? The man formerly known as the Black Adder, and the ex-Auror who'd somehow managed to catch him in more ways than one. Months and months of chasing each other around, and now so much had changed ― but Ron was pretty sure, neither of them would've had it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos/comments = <3!
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](https://ohlookagaydraco.tumblr.com/) and [LJ](http://fangqueen.livejournal.com/) as well!


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